


So We Endure

by TheWaitingFangirl



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Awkward Conversations, Civilian Reader, F/M, Fluff, Historically Accurate, Intrusive Thoughts, Money Struggle, Sad and Sweet, Single Parenting, Slow Burn, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2019-07-12 13:35:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15996290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWaitingFangirl/pseuds/TheWaitingFangirl
Summary: Struggling as a single mother to raise a four year old boy into the world, the odds were never in your favour, but you make do; however you can. Money was always short and food was scarce, but if not you, who else?The cold and the rain are as unforgiving as London's ruthlesness.





	1. Rough Start

You let out a shivering breath, tugging the tattered shawl more tightly around your shoulders as you made the long way back home already late into the night. The payment today had been way less than what you expected and it flustered you, since you were expecting to receive at least two pounds for the double shift at the pub — but movement was scarce.

The streets were somewhat empty, save for stray animals and one or another late time workers such as yourself — and you expected to get home soon, before the cold truly settled in, and manage to stoke up the fire in the kitchen. If you were lucky, there would be something left to munch onto before going to bed and starting it all over again.

With staggering steps due exhaustion, you made your way into the small alley tucked between two buildings that was your street — and you weren’t even sure if you could call it a “street”, truly. The wooden walls of humble houses nearly touched and many neighbors managed to stretch cords over the muddy “street” down below as makeshift clothesline. Holding a yawn, you juggled the ground floor open as quietly as you could, turning the key with a held back breath until it clicked and you could slip inside before locking the door again behind you.

Your heart clenched painfully, knowing what was to come. You hated to do this, really hated, because you _knew_ he didn’t deserve it, knew that the boy was a gift sent from heaven with an infinite amount of patience — but you _had_ to. There was no one else, and he could only count on you to make life easier or pleasurable, at the very least, as poorly as you could. With practiced motions from time and memory, you slowly climbed the stairs, mindful of the creaky boards and rotten bits that would just sink under your feet, doing your best to stay as quiet as only mice could be. Your feet ached from the walk and felt like they were going to freeze if you didn’t pry your mud ruined shoes soon enough.

Before going to your rented two-room-flat, you dragged yourself through the hall as best as you could and gently knocked on Mrs. Dolloway door — a middle aged plump irish woman who had been widowed by a sailor a couple years back and left with four children of her own to raise, putting together babysitting of a sorts business; and who’d always look after Charlie for free because you were “such a hardworking young woman.”

Pressing your temple against the cool wood of the doorframe, you waited with closed eyes as you felt the beginnings of a headache creep in. You were so incredibly exhausted it was unreal and, if left to your own devices, you _could_ sleep against the doorframe—

The door flung inwards suddenly, the hinges complaining as tiredly as you felt, and Mrs. Dolloway greeted you with a sympathetic face. “’Night, my dear,” she whispered to you, making way so you could come in. “He’s sleeping right next to Willy on the sofa, poor thing.”

The room was simple, really; somewhat like yours, although bigger. A few squared feet that would make up a cluttered living and dining room with a sad little stove that served as makeshift kitchen surrounded by wooden cabinets, only bigger. A back door would lead to the even smaller bedroom that could also serve as a bathroom, with only the right things. Five children slept soundly in the room, two on the sofa — Willy, barely a toddler, and Charlie, as Mrs. Dolloway had said —, Thomas, who was just around Charlie’s general age, on a bundled up comforter in the corner curled up to Sarah, a few years older, and Grace, who’d turn 12 in a bit, on spare cushions behind the sofa, even though you could only see her dirty feet.

Bending down so you could gather your sleepy 4-year-old in your arms, you felt him stir and cling to your neck as only a young child could. “Mummy…,” he muttered for nothing in particular.

“The nice boy from the Galloway street, God bless him, stopped by today. He brought the kids ‘few sandwiches he managed to put together last minute after a dinner party at his employer’s house, not like the food would be missed — probably gunna end up in the garbage, eh? I split them up between ‘em, so don’t you worry eh?,” the older woman said in a gentle voice as you bounced Charlie lightly so he wouldn’t cry for being woken and you nodded in understanding. “He’s an absolute angel, I’m only happy to have him here, dear.”

“Yes, and I’m thankful, Dolls’. I can only hope you can put up with me for a little longer,” you confessed with a sigh, “I’ll try to bring you something from the pub tomorrow, cross my heart,” you whispered as Charlie’s hug around your neck slackened a bit and you could feel his even breathing on your skin. At least he was already back to sleep.

Throwing her hands up, the widowed woman gave you a dismissive gesture. “Don’t worry, dear; you do what you can. Don’t you go out of your way for a daft old woman, it’s alright! Although I’m thankful for your kindness. it’s truly fine. You don’t owe me a thing.”

You felt bad, sometimes, if you had to be honest. Mrs. Dolloway had so much on her plate already, with the daycare as her breadwinner, and she never charged you anything for looking after Charlie. It felt like you were taking advantage of her good heart, even though you had addressed the matter before and she waved your concerns away like mother comforting a child. _I only do this because I know how work you hard, dear_ , she had said, _I want to make things easier for you, however I can_.

Smiling bashfully, you bit your inner cheek in an attempt to keep yourself quiet and bid Mrs. Dolls’ farewell. Getting a better hold on Charlie, you shifted towards the exit with slow movements, not to wake him, and couldn’t help the creaky board right in front of your door as you tried to juggle it open, listening for your neighbor softly closing hers. “Mummy… ‘m tired,” Charlie muttered with an edge of frustration in his voice.

“I know, baby,” you cooed as you pushed the door open and made your way to the bedroom in easily three steps, “mummy’s tired too.” With a huff, you put the kid on the old mattress and heard the bed creak suspiciously as it ever did, like it was going to give in at any moment. As much as you’d love to dive right in and sleep your worries away, there was still some bookkeeping to make. “Sleep on, I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Mummyyy,” he whined, clearly upset about having to fall asleep alone again as the beginnings of a fit threatened to take over, “I want you…”

“I know, I know,” you shushed him pulling the covers over his chest and kissing the dark mess of brown curls away from his eyes. “Mummy will be right back, yes? Promise we can go to the park this weekend and I’ll let you run after the ducks, hm? Does that sound good?”

Charlie pouted, turning on his side and giving you a long stare. “Tommy said you don’t like me,” he sniffled, tiny hand coming up to rub at his nose, “because you go out every day and don’t want to stay with me. I cried a lot and Auntie Doll swatted his butt for it—“

“Hey,” you cut in and sat beside him on the bed, “you know that’s not true. Mummy loves you very much, as every mummy does to their little kids, right?,” Charlie nodded at your words and you wiped away the pooling of tears in his eyes. “Mummy spends as much time as she can with you, you know that. Mummy just has to work. Do you remember what—”

“A singer,” Charlie piped up before you could finish. “You sing pretty songs; it’s what singers do. Grace is a good singer, we played ‘row your boat’ today, and I told her you were a singer too and she said she never heard you sing, but I told her it’s ‘cause you only sing at special occasions, isn’t that right mummy?”

You smiled and contained a small laugh of amusement at his innocence, wondering for how long that’d keep up, and smoothed his hair sweetly. Truth be told, you weren’t even that good at singing, but as long as it paid the bills and kept you and Charlie off the streets, it was good. It had to be. “Yes, dear. That’s right,” you kissed him, “now, go to sleep. I’ll sing you a pretty song, way prettier than Grace’s, but only if you go to sleep okay?”

Charlie bit his lower lip, and at the low light coming in from the candles in the hallway you could barely make out his face. “Leave a candle for me?”

You wanted to agree and say you’d give him all the candles he ever wanted, but as you recalled, there were only three left — enough for five days, at most. “Say what, mummy’s scared of the dark too. What if I light the candle at the living room and leave the door open so we can have some light together? Then, mummy will blow it out and rush to the bed so the Spring-Heeled Jack won’t appear to make mischief. How’s that?”, you offered tentatively and Charlie gave you a tired giggle.

“Mummy’s afraid of the dark…,” he babbled almost incomprehensibly, chubby fingers clutching at the wool of your worn out skirt. The boy said something else, but whatever it was, lost itself in his sigh.

“Mummy’s afraid of a lot of things, big boy…,” you confessed gently, fixing the mop of hair as he slept.

With a side smile, you got up from the bed and pushed the door so it’d be left half open and padded your way towards the candle cabinet and picked the half-burnt candle from last night, taking advantage of the fire at the hallway before closing and locking your door; with the candleholder in hand, you retrieved the stash of money from inside the kitchen cabinet, behind the already greening bread — you’d need to ask Mrs. Dolloway to lend you some food for Charlie tomorrow, grimacing at the though. Maybe you could cut the green out, but that was a problem for tomorrow-you.

Spilling the money on the beaten wooden table, you made quick count of how much you’d managed to raise for rent — with the shilling and a few pence you’d managed to earn today and the other five or so you already had tucked away from savings… you were short on money. Your heart sank coldly, the thin cold prickles of desperation already starting at the base of your neck. The rent was due three days ago and you had promised to pay your landlord tomorrow, if not today — and yet, you were two shillings short. With a shaky breath, you ran your hands on your hair, pulling at the pins that kept it in place. Mr. Ross, unlike your floor neighbor, wasn’t known for sweetness and kindness and you were well aware of how greedy the man was to let you go with a few coins short, thinking you might be hiding money from him.

 “Bloody hell,” you whispered, staring at the coppers on the table.

By now, a fine sheen of rain batted against the thin walls of the building, creating an oddly peaceful calamity in your mind. This wouldn’t do. You couldn’t keep up like this, picking between paying the rent or making sure you and Charlie wouldn’t starve to death. Sighing, you bit your nails and tried to think of something to make ends meet when a loud knock startled you out of your thoughts.

Shit.

“I know you’re in there, open this door right this _instant_!,” Mr. Ross growled outside, the threat in his voice clear at the way he punctuated the last word and you were on your feet in a second, already glancing at Charlie as he stirred in bed; but didn’t move to get out of it.

“Mummy?,” he whimpered at the rough awakening—

And Mr. Ross _yelled_ your name.

“Open the door, or so help me God, I’ll bring it down!”

You heard Charlie call you again, louder this time, but went towards the front door and unlocked it as the man pushed it open — and you took a quick step back, already trembling with fear. “Mr. Ross, listen—“

“No, _you_ listen!,” the squalid old man shook a finger in your face, “I won’t have you living in here for free, d’you hear me? I’ve had enough of your excuses, young lady! You think I won’t kick you out just because you have a kid? Do you think—“

“Mr. Ross, I promise you,” you cut in, face burning with shame and frustration, “I will have the money by the end of tomorrow, I swear to you. Today we had little movement since it’s a weekday, but tomorrow is Friday and—“

“Already with another excuse!,” he mocked, angrily shaking his hand. “Can you even hear yourself?”

Yes. Yes, you could, and you knew how bad it sounded, but you had to press on. “I’m giving you my word, I swear I’ll have the money tomorrow—“

“What good is your word, even? A single mother who gains her life as a petty singer—“

“Mummy?,” came Charlie’s voice from behind and you felt his hand tug at the skirt of your dress, looking down to see his eyes shine with unshed tears as he pressed his face to your thigh. “Mummy, ‘m scared…”

“Oh, baby, but I’m right here,” you coddled Charlie gently, picking him up and hugging his smaller frame as you shot Mr. Ross a pleading look as the boy sniffled to your neck.

The older man’s mouth twitched downwards, and you could tell how unhappy he was with the situation. You were running out of time. “This _isn’t_ over. We will speak later. And by ‘speak’, I mean you’re going to pay me or move out.” Ross spoke with certainty, the edge of a far worse threat so clear in his voice as the water they had in Westminster.

The door banged when your landlord left and Charlie shook in your arms, hugging your neck as tightly as his arms allowed him and he babbled something unintelligible about loud sounds and the dark; and you did what a mother could, bouncing him back to the bedroom and blowing the candle on the way.

 

* * *

 

The sky was already turning violet as you fidgeted with the fingerless gloves you managed to save from your mother, God bless her soul, on your way to work. There was no way you could make what was left of your debt in one single night with singing alone — and you hated to admit that, as much as it hurt and made you want to crawl out of your own skin. You’d have to please a patron or two if you wanted the money to be enough, not only in the musical way, as you strictly kept to for so long — because you may be poor, but you still clutched to the dignity you managed to keep, even after all these years.

As the night carried on, you sang the favorites of a few familiar faces, charming as ever, and awkwardly flirting back to whoever tried to woo you — which gained you a few odd stares from Mr. Jackson, the owner — who sometimes seemed to be _overfriendly_ towards your person, if you dared to say so, and you suspected it was the main reason why you could keep your job this long —, but luckily he didn’t say anything. One of the patrons, a man who seemed to be a sailor, seemed to be particularly interested into trying to play you in front of everyone else, pinching your hip and trying to swat your butt as you walked by — and you had to hold on to all your might not to just slap him across the face. As you had guessed, with the arrival of weekend, the pub seemed busier and, luckily, your share would be bigger today and there would be some money left for you to buy fresh food for Charlie on your way back.

Some people already seemed drunk enough and the pub was emptying quickly, and you mustered up your courage to go and approach the men who seemed interested on you not only for your voice.

“Oi, you pretty lil’ thing,” the sailor called to you, voice loud and booming, “don’ be shy now, tell me if you sing like tha’ when a real man touches ya pretty cunt?,” he smiled wickedly at your direction, elbowing a friend on the arm as he went on. “I bet you sound amazin’, girlie.”

Plastering your best fake smile to your face, you batted your eyes at him, mindful of swaying your hips on the way. “I don’t know, sir…,” you started, swallowing the bitter taste of defeat rising in your throat, “you can find out if you want… that way we can help each other out…?,” you trailed off, letting the promise hang in the air.

The man seemed a bit taken aback at your proposal, glancing at his peers as they chuckled and whistled at him, before grinning at you like he was about to have sex with the Queen herself. “Oh, girlie, ya just went n’ made my night all the better now.”

Pretending to giggle and try to hide your blushing cheeks — not from the obvious interest and intentions in his voice —, you batted your eyes at the man and let your hands squeeze his forearm — because you couldn’t force yourself to go any further — before letting go with a barely there smile. Through all your resolution, you felt a hint of disgust, even if you were unable to pin down to whom it was directed to.

You crossed the threshold of the back door — one that’d lead to an alley that seemed more like an extension of the Thames itself, the bricks almost fully hidden below all the mud and dirty papers scattered there —, blatantly ignoring the pointed look Mr. Jackson shoot you. There was a light drizzle coming down that added to the beginnings of a fog coming from the river, which only helped to worsen your anxiety. You _had_ to do this. You kept repeating it in your head, teeth clenching hard enough to hurt. It was a necessity, a desperate measure—

 _A true desperate one_ , you thought to yourself, turning around as soon as the man came out the door and it was right then that you decided: it wasn’t worth it. How reckless were you being, even? Chastising yourself, you opened your mouth to apologize and make your getaway, but he came too quickly and pushed you back towards the bricked wall; knocking the air out of you.

“Pretty lil’ thing, ain’t you?,” he breathed to your neck and you shuddered with disgust at the reek of stale mead. “With all your singin’ and whatnot…”

“Please,” you started, eyes burning with the sting of unshed tears and fear prickling your skin, “I can’t…”

“Oh,” he smiled complacently, rough hand coming up to hold you by the throat, “but you can, alright.”

“I have a son,” came your desperate response in a tumble, trying to squirm yourself free, “he’s waiting for me now, I jus—“

The man scoffed, dismissing your words as quickly as they came out of your mouth, “what, goin’ to just tease me and leave me hangin’?,” he shoot you an amused yellow-toothed grin, “the brat can wait longer, luv’.”

Your breathing started coming out in ragged puffs, fumbling between closing your eyes and keeping them wide open, not giving up on trying to run away from the situation you managed to get yourself into because of sheer stupidity and _desperation_. How _naïve_ were you being even, to think that you could ever _possibly_ —

“Don’t,” you whimpered trying to push him away from your neck and rimming of your clothing, “please, you’re hurting me…”

“You think you gonna slip away jus’ like that?,” he rasped into your ear, roughly pushing a leg between your thighs and holding one of your arms still against the wall. Fat tears started rolling down your cheeks and you fought to stop a sob from bubbling free as he kept talking, “that you can go n’ tease me all you want and just go?”

“Actually…” another voice came in, tone casually ironic as boots hit the soaked ground. “That’s just what’s gonna happen. Sorry, mate.”

Your aggressor scoffed again, sending another huff of beer-breath into your face before looking over his shoulder only to freeze in place — and you felt his grip on you slacken.

“That’s what I thought,” the newcomer tipped his head to the side as if amused, if not for the situation. “Now… get lost.”

“Mr. Frye, I swear, she was—“

“Have I asked you anything? Am I not being _clear_ enough?”, the man, either someone important or dangerous, punctuated the words as he came dangerously closer and you couldn’t help but flinch away, “do I need to repeat myself?”

The assailant seemed displeased, although he tried to explain himself and pulled away from your smaller frame to avoid another complaint thinly veiled with threat from the man he addressed as “Mr. Frye”, even though his expression was one of annoyance.

“Sir, let me—“

The other squared his shoulders, coming forward in a quick move and grabbed your attacker by the throat, pushing him into the brick walls with a loud thud. “Wrong fucking move, mate,” you heard him whisper threateningly and shrunk into your own corner as if the anger was being directed at you.

A flurry of “I’m sorry, sir” and “please, sir” came out tumbling out of the cornered man’s mouth the newcomer pushed him into the dirt ground and kept walking towards him as if intending to keep up the chase until he got up and scrambled his way around the corner of the alley. It felt surreal, almost like a novel scene you used to read when younger; surreal how the assault had ended, just as quickly as it had started and you felt your hands _trembling_ as they wiped away at the tears in your cheeks and they just wouldn’t _stop_ —

 “Are you hurt?”, someone whispered softly beside you, resting a warm hand upon your shoulder and you jerked away from the touch.

Looking up, like a cornered animal, you wrapped your arms around yourself. The man who had rescued you was still there and in the half-light of the poorly-lit streets of London you could see a glint of olive skin under a tattered hat and you could barely make out his face — another of the few regulars in the bar, who’d drop by every week or so. You couldn’t remember much of him, only that he never came alone and didn’t seem to stray much further from his clique whom, amusingly, all whore green jackets now that you thought of it.

“ _Please_ …,” came your trembling voice and you never dared to finish your sentence.

He frowned for a second, worried that it might’ve been actually worse than you were actually letting show. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you, cross my heart on it.” The man pulled a small handkerchief and handed it to you in a slow deliberate movement. “My name is Jacob Frye. Can you tell me your name?”

At the late hour and situation you found yourself into, you couldn’t find a way to say no and walk away from someone who seemed to be willingly offering you help without asking for anything in return — even if that person were a man. Nodding, you took the handkerchief and tried your best to dry your tears and face; and by now the rain had stopped, but the fog was thicker and higher to your knees and you just wanted to cry again, just to beat yourself over it some more.

You still hesitated, letting the tears pool in your eyes, but he — Mr. Frye — waited patiently, not moving or making a sound until you chose to speak up and answer his request.

“That’s a pretty name,” he smiled gently and watched you as you dried your face, “that was pretty rough, huh?”

You didn’t want to make small talk, so you didn’t reply. You just wanted to go home and—

 _Charlie_.

God, you simply wanted to go home and hug your baby boy tight and forget about this whole _nightmare_ —

Biting the corner of his lip, Mr. Frye opened his mouth to say something, but thought better and closed it before changing his mind again. “Do you want help to get back home?,” he asked in a softer tone than before, explaining himself when you looked up with wide eyes, “It’s very late already, I just wouldn’t feel good letting you go like this and after… that.”

As much as everything in your head screamed no, that you could work it out alone, you agreed after a long moment of silence.

 

* * *

 

“Why did you stop to help me?,” you asked after a long while of a silent walk towards the slums. “Could’ve just walked away.”

You eyed Jacob out of the corner of your eyes as he squeezed one of his eyes as if dreading the thought — and you could tell, after just a few minutes, that he was pretty expressive. “It’s just… I like your singing,” he proposed before closing his eyes and breathing out, “ok, wow, that came out terribly.”

You scoffed at his monologue because, yes, it was one hell of a bad argument.

“I’ve seen you before, is what I’m saying. You sing at the pub and I confess I’ve gone out of my way a few times for it, so I couldn’t just… walk away,” Jacob elaborated, casting a glance downwards as he frowned. “Actually, I would’ve done the same for anyone else, I suppose? I have a sister… so, yeah…”

You picked up as he trailed off, “a sister?”

Jacob smiled at your question, casting you a glance, “yes, Evie. She’s my twin sister. Recently moved to India with her husband and… I guess I couldn’t stand it if someone tried to get their way with her,” he confessed with a sigh before continuing, “although I bet she’d have his balls if the thought ever crossed his mind.”

“I see,” you replied absentmindedly. He seemed nice enough, you supposed, but you still couldn’t help the stiffness on your back.

Jacob dug his hands in his pockets, accompanying you without the slightest of worries and you wondered for a few seconds if he also lived in the slums to be this used with it — but his clothing, although beaten up, seemed too clean for it, so you ultimately decided to stay quiet until you were close to your place. The silence stretched, uncomfortable and thick for several minutes as your feet splashed through the mud and whatnot of the dirty streets, and you couldn’t help the sigh of relieve as you spotted the familiar crinkled silhouette of your building, and Mr. Frye spoke up in the same gentle tone from before:

“You… Can I ask you something?”

Tipping your head to the side, “you already are.”

He smiled, casting an amused look at you, “I suppose I am.”

With a sigh as you sensed the question that was coming your way, you got into the building and started climbing the stairs as silently as you could, cursing yourself for forgetting to warn him about the creaky boards as the wood moaned terribly. You didn’t feel like broaching this subject with a man you’ve only just met.

“But Mr. Frye, I swear,” you offered in an apologetic tone, “I’d rather not.”

Jacob nodded and stopped, not looking at you as you stopped by Mrs. Dolloway and the door was yanked open by a shrieking red-faced Charlie.

“Mummy, mummy!,” he babbled, all teary eyed and ripped shirt, throwing his arms up as you immediately kneeled in front of him in a desperate hug. The boy sobbed soundly into your neck, small hands grabbing at the rim of your dress with a vice grip as you smoothed his hair and whispered sweet nothings to him.

“Lil’ thing just wouldn’t quiet down,” your neighbor explained with a sad smile. “Got into a fight with Tommy, can you believe it? Been in n’ out of cryin’ for an hour or so, both of ‘em.”

You startled, looking up at her as embarrassment took over, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Dolloway, I truly am—“

“Darling girl,” came the sweet response, “stop worryin’, will you? Children are just like that from time to time, I’m tellin’ you.” Charlie sniffled, mumbling about something you couldn’t quite make out, and clung to you tighter. The older woman patted his messy dark hair and offered you a sympathetic look. “Go get yourself some sleep, aye? It’s a quarter past two.”

Biting your lip, you thanked her and bid your farewell with your son still in your arms. When she closed the door, your turned around to see Jacob standing next to the stairs, where he was sure he couldn’t be seen by your neighbor, casually leaning against it and turning his flat cap in his hands. You didn’t quite understand why he was still around, but didn’t dare to look over at the man as you made your way towards your own door and tried to open it.

“So now you have your answer,” you muttered with a hint of sarcasm as the door creaked open. “I do apologize if I sound rude, Mr. Frye, specially after what you did for me, but why are you still here?”

Jacob seemed like he wanted to say something, tiptoeing on it before pushing himself away from the half-rotten wooden wall and coming your way. You couldn’t help but tense up at his approach, even though he had saved you earlier — even so, you still didn’t know him. He then frowned, stopping a few inches away and hesitated once more before speaking up, voice so small you almost missed it:

“Let me help you, yes?,” he scratched his neck nervously, eyeing you like you could snap at him at any given second and, frankly, you might as well do.

“ _I beg your pardon_?,” you blurt out and held Charlie more tightly to your body as confusion flooded your mind, “Mr. Frye—“

“I can help you pay the rent,” Jacob blurted fishing a small bag of coins from his brown coat, but—

“No,” you cut him out before he could say anything else or even open the small leather bag, “I beg your pardon, Sir, I’m sure you have good intentions,” he stared at you curiously and you averted your gaze, “… but this isn’t charity.”

Mr. Frye looked troubled, pressing his lips thinly together at your refusal, as if something greatly worried him. “Please, just take it. So you don’t have to go through any of that again.”

You looked him in the eye, wondering how he knew about your struggling, before reminding yourself how ordinary your situation was: someone who’d taken a stupid decision out of sheer desperation — and the man didn’t seem to be stupid, with a glint in his eyes that suggested he knew much more than he was letting out.

Even so, you still hesitated. It wasn’t right to abuse of someone’s kindness like that, was it? What if he held that on you, like a debt? You had never spoken to him, so you couldn’t—

“Please,” Mr. Frye pressed in, eyes wide and brow furrowed as if he was the one asking for help, “If not for you, do it for the boy.”

 _Low_ move, you thought bitterly, worrying your lower lip between teeth and holding back the tears that pooled in your eyes, threatening to fall at any second. Charlie gave a small sigh, nearly asleep in the motherly warmth of your arms and you couldn’t do this to him, let your pride and consternations take away what someone offered you so freely — a thing you hadn’t known since you left home.

But what if—

“I…,” you started, swallowing thickly, and cast your eyes down. “The rent is… 9 shillings,” blinking the tears away, you took a deep breath before speaking up again, “I already have 7 and 3 pence. Just the necessary, Mr. Frye. Please.”

The man watched you for a few seconds with surprisingly kind eyes until he moved and untied the small thing in his hands, pulling a few coins as you offered your hand timidly, almost afraid that he would go and slap it away — and you knew he was giving you just a tad bit more, his eyes betrayed him, but—

The money tinkled softly in your palm as Mr. Frye dropped the coppers there, closing it and pressing his incredibly warm one over yours. “Thank you, dear,” he smiled softly and, for a broken second, he looked incredibly sad, but it vanished just as you had seen it.

You didn’t understand why he had thanked you if he was the one helping, but you nodded and let the tears fall through your face as you bowed to him in a quick thanks, pushing the coins deep in your apron pocket with a rush and turned on your feet to close the door with a soft thud. The shame was great, yes, but you were somehow thankful — so incredibly thankful you felt guilty for the ones who didn’t have this kind of luck; the ones who had to go through what you backed away from that night at the last minute and given another chance.

And so, pressing your forehead to the suspiciously-soft-wooden door, you let yourself cry quietly and tucked your son’s face into your collarbone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys think this fic doesn't have smut planned way ahead, you're so wrong.
> 
> Special thanks to templarfryer on tumblr for helping me write this and being my partner. She rocks, I love my baby very much and she's threatening me to write this fic.


	2. A Push Forwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm planning on updating this fic every month. I got a couple days late on the posting - I'm trying to keep it at the 15th -, but that's because of my tests.
> 
> Either way, this chapter is like, really big and good and I love Jacob a lot bc he's awkward like me.

You made quick count of the coins on the table as the grey light of the early Sunday morning filtered lazily through the dirty windows of your flat. There were a few loose pennies, nearly a _shilling_!, thanks to the unexpected help from the man of yesterday, Mr. Frye — you hadn’t forgotten his name, and couldn’t be sure if you were to any time soon, really.

And if you had to be even more honest, you thought to yourself, you’d need even more time to forget what had almost happened yesterday. Breathing out tiredly, you sort out the rent money and quietly placed what was left of the lonely coppers back into the rusty tea can, shoving it expertly at the back of the cabinet. You still had to mend Charlie’s shirt and find out what had happened yesterday, pay your landlord and most likely go to the market since there wasn’t really much food left.

Peeking around the doorframe, you watched as Charlie slept soundly on the bed. You still had to find out what had happened yesterday and why he came back home with his shirt tore nearly to pieces — and you guessed Tommy wasn’t much better. You’d have to ask Mrs. Dolloway later if she knew anything about it. Sighing again, you pressed your lips into a thin line and turned around to gather the rent payment; and you couldn’t help, really, but stare at the two shiny shillings, gleaming as if brand new in contrast to the others you had in hand, dirty and covered in soot.

It was hard to remember having received that kind of help in a really long time — because, well, it had been mostly you and Charlie for as long as you could remember and you were keen on keeping that up. As hard as it was to get by alone, you grew used and hardened on the face of it, maybe even getting proud of what you had accomplished on your own. The coins were a token, a reminder of what you couldn’t do by yourself, and you ached to get rid of them as fast as possible.

Knowing it was Sunday and you had the day off — since Sunday nights were slow on business and Mr. Jackson gave a flimsy excuse about you needing to rest just so he wouldn’t have to pay for your working day —, you were ruminating about what to do after the market. Maybe you could take Charlie to the park? But did you have enough money for the bus?

You’d have to figure that out later.

 

* * *

 

A knock on the door halted your motions as you fixed your hair in place.

Maybe Mrs. Dolloway had come back from church and wanted to talk about the kids' fight yesterday?

“Mummy, are we going now?,” Charlie pulled at the skirt of your dress with a whine as you shushed him gently and headed towards the front door.

You had dressed him in his best clothing — a donated and barely used shirt which Tommy had outgrown of and the new shorts you’d managed to sew him from the ruined brown dress skirt you had. You fared a little worse, of course, but not that far behind with a relatively nice although simple burgundy skirt and a white half-sleeved shirt that used to have a thin black ribbon to be tied around the neck a long time ago. You folded the torn shirt, sticking the needle into the fabric as you got up.

“In a minute, Charlie. The park isn’t going anywhere, you know that. And remember, mummy has to fix your shirt, _then_ we’re paying the Church a visit and only after that the park.”

Charlie pouted and followed you as you walked towards the door like any impatient child would. “But I wanna go now!”

“And we will, just be patient. It’s still early,” you chided, although gently, with a kiss to his head.

Turning around, you opened the door with an easy smile before fully processing what was in front of you — not Mrs. Dolloway as you had expected and were halfway through a greeting, but the man from yesterday. Mr. Frye, with a nervous smile, top hat and wool longcoat, as he held a paper bag filled with what seemed to be food, looked away briefly before shrugging apologetically. Charlie came behind you, peeking around your waist to look at the stranger as you stared at him in utter disbelief.

“Good morning is in order, I suppose,” he said in a rush with a sheepish smile that settled oddly upon his face.

“I… Mr. Frye, what in God’s—“

“Please,” he said quietly and adjusted the bag in his grip and the sheer absurdity of it all had you at a loss of words, “I’d rather if you call me Jacob.”

“Mis— Jacob,” you tested the word, trying not to think of how _out of place_ the man felt in that corridor with that hat and how equally out of place the name sounded in your mouth as he shifted nervously in front of you, “what… can I _help_ you?”

Jacob blinked slowly at you. “I… brought you food.”

Charlie frowned at the man, clutching tighter to your body as he eyed him up. “Is he a magician, mummy?”

With a smile and before you could say anything at the absurdity of it all, the man leaned down and whispered as if sharing a dark secret, “maybe I am? Would you like that?”

Your son coiled, scowling before pressing his face to your clothing, to which Jacob only chuckled and you frowned deeply because this still wasn’t throwing any light onto the situation. “My apologies… Jacob. But you still haven’t explained why you’re here and why…,” you gestured vaguely to the bag he was holding.

Jacob laughed half-heartedly at your bewilderment. “You wouldn’t take my money,” he explained as if it were obvious, “well, at least not all of it.”

“That’s because—“

“I understand,” he cut in and you could see the gentleness in his hazel eyes. “But it just didn’t feel… fair. It didn’t feel enough, is what I mean,” the man shuffled, still nervous and his voice softened. “… I only had my dad when I was a kid, you know?,” Jacob frowned briefly and a cloud covered his expression briefly, “and I only met him at six. If I can make this any easier on you and if you’d allow me, I just…,” he trailed off and looked up at you once more.

With a heavy sigh, you rubbed your son’s arm and stepped away from the entrance to allow him in. You didn’t like this — but there was something in his voice, the way he spoke and kept to himself… it was more than you had seen in most men. Or perhaps less of what you were used to.

Jacob nodded quickly in thanks and headed towards the table to put the groceries on as you closed the door. Charlie scurried away, curiosity getting the best of him as he investigated what was it that the newcomer had brought. “Mummy! Look! Ham!”

“That’s…,” expensive, you thought to yourself, “yes, I see.”

“I wasn’t sure of what you liked,” he explained as you settled on the other side of the wooden table, “so… yeah. There are… apples, bread, ham,” he said with a tap on Charlie’s head to which he looked vaguely annoyed of, “a few eggs, tea, a piece of cheese, some tomatoes… Now, I tried to find milk, but—“

“Mr. Frye,” you interrupted him as the food kept pouring out and you could tell, somehow, that he was somewhere halfway through. Jacob stopped and looked at you wide eyed; inquisitive, yet politely waiting for you to continue. You shoot Charlie a quick glance as he seemed to be too distracted by all the kinds of goods he never had a proper chance to take a closer look at — and at that, your heart skipped a beat. Sighing, you turned towards the man standing in front of you and offered slowly, “it is... very nice of you, sir, I truly don’t know what to say—“

“Oh, please,” he dismissed you briefly, a nervous edge to his voice you didn’t remember listening to from last night. “Jacob is _completely_ fine. I like it better, if you don’t mind? It makes me feel old whenever you call me _sir._ ”

A part of you were thankful for the way he held himself — politely holding his hand to show he wanted to speak before starting, the slight nod of his head, how he kept his hands close to his body and on top of that the sheepish smile on his lips. But another part, one more callous and untrusting, whispered that he was trying to gain an edge on, that he _would_ ask for something in return, if not now, in the future, and screamed at you to make that man leave your home.

“I… Yes, Jacob,” you acquiesced and his smile broadened a little at it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jacob commented while taking his top hat off and folded it to put it away inside the pocket of his coat, voice tinged with light-hearted humor — and something told you that this was how his voice sounded most of the time, “but I swear to you. I’m here with the best of my intentions.”

Biting your lower lip, you crossed your arms and watched Charlie as he picked up a ruby red apple — and by God, it was _fresh_ — and examined it with childish wonder. The boy looked up at you, then at the man and back at you. “Mummy,” he called, almost too low to be a whisper, hurrying to your side with a bashful expression, “can I have it?”

“I think you have to ask Jacob, sweetheart,” you proposed and the boy frowned, turning to look at the stranger and back at you.

“But I’m asking you,” the boy answered with a tiny voice, trying to avoid the other’s look.

“Of course you can,” Jacob called in, voice laced with softness, drawing everyone’s attention to himself, “because it’s yours.” Charlie eyed him suspiciously, glancing at you and at the food scattered across the table. “Do you want me to cut the apple for you?”

“No,” your son replied way too quickly, hurrying to clutch at your skirt with a somewhat sour expression, “I want mummy,” he pushed the fruit into your hand insistently, rounding your waist and trying to get as far away from Jacob as he could.

Your eyes widened just as quickly as your cheeks heated at your boy’s demeanor towards your benefactor and you cried out in embarrassment, “Charlie, son, this wasn’t polite!”

“It’s fine,” Jacob intervened, “I sure gave my father enough embarrassment for a lifetime when I was a kid myself, very unlike my sister,” he offered a smile to you and sounded slightly uncomfortable. “I was what you could consider a ‘problem child’.”

You smiled softly at his confession, prying away Charlie’s hands from your dress as you pulled an old dulled knife from the drawer and opened the top cabinet to find a plate for his snack — you didn’t know he was hungry and would have to tell him to let you know the next time — before answering, “I apologize anyway, Mis— Jacob. He’s a very sweet child, just a tad bit shy, unpredictable like any other, but I’ve never seen him be rude before,” you finished slicing the fruit and took it to the armchair where Charlie had found refuge, next to the rusty stove where you did the cooking and acted as some sort of heater for the small flat. “You should apologize, sweetheart,” Charlie pouted at your words, taking the clay plate from your hands and mumbling something about not having been mean.

Jacob chuckled, looking a bit off place as he shuffled a bit and scratched the bridge of his nose, “quite spirited too, from what I can see?” You huffed a laugh as Charlie scowled at his general direction.

He seemed nice enough, you thought to yourself. Hadn’t made any unfortunate comments on your situation and seemed to understand your position as he shared bits and pieces from his own life when young and you were— well, you were curious. And thankful, even if still with your own reservations, you still hadn’t forgotten how quickly he had pushed a man at least a head taller than himself against the wall that easily.

“I assume that’s how your father usually described you?”

“Oh, no,” he smirked at you, “father was way less subtle. He usually referred to me as ‘lost cause’, sometimes ‘problematic’. But I never minded it much,” Jacob was quick to add, “sometimes would even go out of my way to live up to it, just to hear him yell ‘Jacob, come here this instant!’,” his voice was cut by a short laugh, “ah, those were the days.”

Feeling more at ease with his openness, you offered meekly: “would you like staying for a cuppa? It’s the very least I can do to thank you for this. You really did go out of your way for it, I’d be most grateful if you joined us,” behind you, Charlie sighed audibly and mumbled something about the park and you had to fight the urge not to turn around and chide him for it.

Jacob watched you for half a heartbeat before breaking a smile. “Yes, I… I’d very much like to,” he fumbled for a second, somewhat embarrassed at your invitation, “thank you.”

Nodding, you put the water to heat and set the unmatched mugs on the counter — as much as you hated to admit it, you _did_ miss the china mother had; the fine white porcelain, a disarray of colorful roses painted to it and rimmed with a golden line. It was meant to be yours, she had told you one day, but you had a hint that it wouldn’t come to be.

“Were you going anywhere?,” Jacob asked casually, shedding his coat and hanging it on the back of the chair, “you both seemed to be headed somewhere, if you don’t mind my prodding.”

Charlie mumbled some gibberish at the back about “a good day ruined” and you sighed before answering, “yes, we were planning to go to the Church for the morning after mending Charlie’s shirt,” you explained while putting the kettle on the stove, “but if I’m being honest, I’m perfectly fine with it. Didn’t fancy going to the Church today that much, you understand?” At your side, Charlie exclaimed in delight, putting the plate aside — dangerously inclined on one side of the armchair — and leaning over to grasp at your arm.

“That means we’re going to the park?”

You smiled and smoothed your son’s unruly hair and saving the dish from its predicament, “yes, but we have a visit for now. We can go afterwards, okay?”

In a second, Charlie’s face turned sour and he eyed Jacob rather begrudgingly before leaning in and whispering, “can’t you ask him to leave, mummy?”

Sighing, you turned around, “Mummy would appreciate if you were to be nice for now, you know?”

“But I—“

“Maybe that’ll make the visit leave quicker, I wonder?,” you interrupted, not paying any mind to his antics for now and he seemed pleased at the idea. “What do you say you fetch me my sewing kit? This way I can fix your shirt too, how does that sound?”

Your boy nodded briefly, hopping off of the armchair and making his way to the bedroom as you turned around to pay attention to Jacob.

“Children, right?,” he said with a rather pensive edge to his voice.

You reached for the clay teapot on the table, settling it over the counter and pulling the brass infuser from the drawer, proceeding to put a few pinches of tea mix into it, “too honest for their own good,” is what mother used to say, but you hesitated on sharing that bit of information. He had no need to know. “You have kids of your own?”

Jacob huffed out a laugh, shaking his head, “good heavens, no. My life wouldn’t allow for it, way too chaotic as it is for now; I’d rather settle down when I’m… not as tangled up.”

Nodding, you tried to figure out what the man did for a living. “Work, then?”

He smiled, cocking his head to the side, “I suppose, yes.” He watched you for a second before smiling, “work.”

You fiddled with the polished clay teapot, turning on your back with a pleasant smile and splashing some water into it from a bowl you kept near the sink. The answer wasn’t exactly clarifying and you didn’t know how the keep the conversation flowing. Charlie came back from the bedroom, eyeing Jacob suspiciously as if the man would suddenly turn into a monster right there in the living room/kitchen.

“Thank you, my dear,” you kissed his head and took the metal box from his tiny hands. “Do you want to eat anything else?”

Charlie bit his lip nervously as he eyed Jacob, “chocolate?,” he whispered hopefully.

“I—,” you shoot the man a look and he seemed ashamed of himself, shaking his head slowly. “Maybe later, mhm? Behave and we’ll see.”

The boy nodded eagerly and headed towards the bedroom where most of his toys were kept — mostly stitched together dolls and some old wooden carts —, and your throat knotted tightly. You hated to lie to him. Maybe you could spare some coin, but—

Jacob sighed, slightly frustrated at the exchange. “I should’ve known. I’m sorry about that, dear. Maybe next time—“

“It’s alright,” you pressed your lips together, trying not to think about how you’d have to postpone the new pair of mittens you wanted to buy; mother’s were ruined already. “You shan’t worry about us, I’m truly thankful, really am, but—“

 “I want you to know I did this because I wanted to,” you turned around and held his gaze, eyes as serious as his voice, “not because I expected gratitude or a medal. I’m not that kind of person, you know?”

Feeling suddenly nervous and slightly bothered, you fidgeted with the uneven surface of the teapot. You didn’t need his help. You could manage. “Yes, I… I understand.”

“I wish to keep helping, if you’d have it,” he continued, already raising his hands and coming to a halt in his speech as your head whipped at his direction, “but I’m guessing you won’t.”

The _audacity._ You huffed, settling the teapot on the table and making your way to the oven rather exasperatedly, “with all due respect, I don’t know what you expect of me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m most thankful, but you’re…”

“A man,” Jacob offered.

So he wasn’t oblivious. Good. “Yes. And one I haven’t seen before, save from… an unfortunate event,” you saw Charlie lying on the bed, belly up, with one of his favorite playthings in hand as you took the kettle and poured the steaming water inside the teapot, dipping the copper infuser in and stirring lightly. “And I’d very much appreciate it if you could understand, Jacob, that I can make a living and take care of my child on my own, if that’s what you’re wondering about.”

Jacob frowned, voice a bit more on the edge than before, “I did not say such thing—“

“You implied, which was enough,” you cut in, picking up Charlie’s folded tunic and settling the teapot on the table. “We’ve been well enough up to now,” you completed, pulling the spool of thread and fixing it through the needle hole.

“I have no doubts nor critiques about how good of a mother you are,” Jacob spoke slowly, fiddling with one of the mugs as you both waited for the tea to brew. “I can see that you do your best, any way you can; and that’s a great accomplishment, really is—“

“But?,” you cut in, eyes whipping up and towards his own hazel ones.

“But nothing,” the man smiled crookedly, “like I said before, I mean well and my only wish is to help, however I can.”

Soon, your teeth found your lower lip, gnawing on it impatiently. He _did_ seem caring and honest, but you weren’t born yesterday; or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. You fidgeted with the needle, unfolding the shirt, fingers following the almost imperceptible patched clothing. When you looked up, you saw that Jacob had been watching you.

“Just hear me out,” he spoke calmly, as if explaining something to a stubborn child. “I require nothing, only that you accept my help.”

“Jacob—,”

“I know there is a chance,” the man cut in, leaning over the table with a playful smile, “or else you wouldn’t have invited me for tea.” He gazed at you, eyes bright and defiant.

You frowned at his words, readying the needle upon the clothing and hesitating for a moment. Deep down, there was some kind of truth in his words, even if you wouldn’t admit such thing out loud. Drawing breath to deny once more because, absolutely no, this was too much and you couldn’t possibly expect anything more from a man you’ve only saw twice and properly talked to _once_ ; even if the little something in his face — something in his _eyes_ — whispered that it would be okay, that as hard earned as trust was, you could place yours upon him; that betrayal and demands and humiliation wouldn’t become a part of the bargain.

Sighing, you picked up the teapot and poured the drink into the ugly mugs before settling back in place, thumb rubbing over the top of the teapot. It wasn’t fair. It was wrong.

“Charlie hasn’t been eating much lately,” you confessed quietly, avoiding the hazel of his eyes and twisting your lips resentfully. “With winter approaching, work just… gets harder. It’s too far and daylight doesn’t last as much as I’d like, but I make enough to keep a roof over our heads,” you stopped, pulling the mug into your hands and allowing it to warm you up. “It has to be, either way.”

Jacob didn’t seem all that satisfied, taking a quick sip of the tea and setting it back on the table as he ran a thumb idly over the metal handle. “Do you seriously need only food? I can give you money too.”

You frowned at his words. “You can’t expect to buy me, Jacob.”

“I’m not trying to,” he quipped back, smirking slightly.

You stared him down across the table, a stark contrast between your beaten up flat and his too-new woolen coat with the top hat in the pocket. _All too akin to a fantastic beast in a world ruled by men_ , you thought to yourself. “What do you have in mind, then?,” you asked, swallowing the building anxiety in your chest.

Silence settled in for a heartbeat or two before Jacob cocked his head to one side as if in deep thought. “Let’s make it like this,” he started, clearly pleased with your question, “I can bring you food around once a week,” he raised a hand to stop your protests, “and I’m compromising myself with, say… a pound each week?”

Bewilderment took over and you couldn’t help but protest, because with that kind of money you’d be able to move to a better off neighborhood, “you cannot be serious!”

Jacob clasped his hands together over the table, like a proper businessman negotiating a deal — only he was bargaining for paying more instead of less — and smiled. “Cross my heart.”

Hearing the commotion, Charlie came out of the bedroom; horse toy clutched in his hand as he looked at both adults sitting by the table. You drank a small amount of tea, barely tasting the enriched flavor — a quality tea, not the already boiled dried-leaves you were used to buy in market —, as the boy approached you with no reason in particular; eyes switching nervously between Jacob and yourself every now and then.

 “Let us shake hands on this,” Jacob prompted.

“Half of it,” you spoke sternly.

“Wha—“

“Half a pound, no more than that,” you repeated, looking down and threading the needle through the shirt as you closed the gap expertly, “It’s as far as I’ll go on taking other people’s money.”

Jacob held his gaze for a long a while, watching you with something akin to amusement in his eyes. “Make it 15 shillings, then,” and he held one hand up, index and middle finger in the air, “and take two days off work. I’d be happy to see you around the tiny man a little more.”

You eyed Charlie quickly, watching as he circled around the table, as if appeasing the man in front of him; and before you could speak up and say that staring wasn’t polite, he piped in:

“Are you really a magician?,” your son asked, still much too suspicious around the intruder ruining his Sunday morning.

Jacob looked at you, smiling as he turned around on the chair to look back at the boy, “so you’ve come to see the greatest magician in all of London?,” he asked, leaning forwards in a flourished motion and Charlie looked at you with uncertainty as you shoot your eyebrows up, making a show of being excited for him. “Tell me your name and Jacob, the great, shall perform a trick for you!”

The boy blushed slightly, a tad bit too flustered with the attention and still not used to him, but managed to mutter out, “Charlie.”

“Charlie!,” he gasped, looking over at you with a smirk, “my, my! That name!”

“What about it?,” your son asked promptly, coming closer with childish curiosity.

Jacob squinted playfully, looking around as if searching for imaginary dangers before leaning down and whispering, “do you really want to know?”

“Yes!,” Charlie shrieked, still not daring to touch him, but much closer now. “Tell me!”

“I had a feeling earlier this morning,” he confided, “that I’d meet someone named Charlie and they’d help me find something I lost.”

The boy turned towards you again, a look of bewilderment in his eyes as this new stranger proved to be way more interesting than before. “Really? What was it? Who told you?”

Jacob cocked his head to the side, closing one of his eyes. “That’s a magician’s secret,” he spoke much too seriously than the situation demanded, starting to pat his pockets as if in search for something before looking at your son once more. “What have you got there behind that ear?”

Charlie’s eyes widened and he scratched a little hand behind one of his ears at Jacob’s words, finding nothing, but then the man leaned closer and pulled a shilling from behind the other one and flipped it around.

“ _Wow!_ ,” the boy gasped, grasping at the coin he was offered, the horse you had stitched together still clutched in his arms. “How did you do that?!,” he inquired quickly, double checking his ears and even the messy mop of hair for another missing coin.

You giggled at how easily Jacob had swayed your son’s temper with just a few words and a silly trick. “Oh, but with magic, of course!,” he exclaimed with the utmost surety. “I knew that name was special, and there you are, sprouting my lost coin from behind your ear!”

Charlie gawked at him, looking at you again with the most adorable childish smile you had ever seen, “that’s amazing!,” he shrieked, thrusting the coin at Jacob. “Another one!”

Jacob smiled, shaking his head, “how about you keep that copper and buy a piece of chocolate on your way to the park?”

The boy hesitated, watching him with suspicion and shifting closer to you; although his eyes betrayed how much he was willing to jump at the opportunity headfirst. He grimaced a bit, turning his face to press it on your side in frustration and Jacob smiled fondly, rolling the coin between his fingers.

You patted his back, trying not to giggle in face of his flustered retreat. “It’s okay,” you whispered, “you can say yes this time.”

Charlie’s head whipped up, brown eyes staring at you in disbelief, “really?”

“Really,” you reassured, “but only because mummy knows Jacob, okay?”

The boy nodded eagerly, gaze resting on the smooth movements of your benefactor’s fingers as he slid the shilling between them in an easy, well practiced manner. Noticing that he was the source of attention once more, Jacob offered the coin to Charlie again; only this time he took it with a tiny “thank you,” before getting himself flustered again and shifting towards you once more.

“He’s a bit shy,” you told Jacob once more, sipping at the almost lukewarm tea and doing your best to ignore how the man seemed so willing to give money away. Once more, you wondered what his job was. “He warms up after some time, like all children.”

Jacob watched him for a while with a soft smile before looking back at you, “I’m just glad he stopped scowling at me, felt like I was gonna be kicked out of the flat at any minute.”

You stifled a small giggle, watching as he drank a bit more of his tea. “Care for more?,” you asked, ready to get up and serve him; but Jacob shook his head instead, leaning over and serving himself before offering to do the same for you. Caught off guard, you simply nodded, poorly concealing your surprised frown as he filled up your mug.

This wasn’t what mother had taught you. Most gentlemen, especially at the first time interacting properly, wouldn’t budge to serve themselves or their host. Seeing the consternation upon your face, Jacob simply chuckled and leaned back on his chair as Charlie moved to the armchair; toy in hand.

“I’m not as fancy as you might think I am,” Jacob confessed with an amused lilt in his voice. “Never cared much for etiquette, think it’s terribly boring. My sister always did most of the talking, either way.”

“You said she moved to India?,” you inquired, goading him on, hoping you weren’t being as obvious as you felt asking about the man.

“Ah, yes,” he nodded, looking down into the amber liquid inside his cup. “She did. Got married and moved, far away,” scoffing, he took another sip. “I couldn’t believe it when she told me. Felt like I was being left behind, barely looked her in the eyes when the train departed.” His eyes shifted to the side and he sighed, “she hugged me either way. Sometimes I regret not having done so, but thankfully she has always been the smarter one. Good thing Greenie snatched her up before it was too late.”

You smiled sympathetically, thumb smoothing the unruly surface of the polished clay of your mug. “I’m truly sorry things turned out like this,” you offered quietly before asking again, “are you two on speaking terms?”

Jacob gave a lopsided smile, gazing at you with a look that you couldn’t pinpoint. “After a dozen unanswered letters from my dear sister, I cast the pride aside and came around it. Pity they take a dreadfully long time to make their way to her,” he sighed once more, looking terribly tired for a moment. “But I always knew we’d end up finding our own ways eventually, just didn’t expect Evie would stumble upon hers so soon.”

Feeling a painful squeeze upon your heart, you broke courtesy once more and leaned over to take a hold of his shoulder; squeezing it reassuringly. “I’m sure she is glad you’ve come to write letters for her. The way you spoke made it sound like you two are very close and I’m sure Mr. Greenie—“

Jacob burst out a loud laugh, stifling it against the back of his hand and you felt at loss. Had you said something wrong? “What’s so funny?”

“It’s not…,” he coughed, face growing red in his effort to hold back the laughter, “his name is Henry Green, actually,” Jacob explained, voice lilted with amusement, “Greenie is a nickname I came up with. Evie tells me I tend to do that a lot. Sorry for not letting you know beforehand.”

That man.

You huffed in disbelief, taking another sip of your drink. Jacob seemed easy enough to get around, perhaps a bit too trusting; _like an open book_ , you thought to yourself, _but kind_. “My mother used to do the same,” you confided, “I learnt most of my singing from her, too. She came from a relatively well-to-do family, but married my dad against their wishes and was taken off the will.”

“They did not!,” Jacob exclaimed.

“Believe me, they did,” you giggled at his bewilderment, “I never got to meet my mother’s parents. Society might’ve started thinking less of them for commuting with the strays,” your voice showed off indifference, even if you still felt bitter over what your mother wouldn’t allow herself feel. “But mother did her best. She taught me most of what she had learned in whatever spare time we had. She worked in a cloth factory. I started there with her around 10, I think.”

“What of your father?,” he asked.

“Father worked at a construction site,” you explained, “he usually slept there on workdays and would come home on Sundays for church and to spend some time with us,” you reminisced in your childhood memories. Blue dress and black shoes, your Sunday best, waiting beside door for the knowing knock you had long since learned was your father’s. Mother’s food after the preaching, walking around the park and throwing pieces of bread in the lake for the fishes and ducks; going to sleep with each of them beside you in bed. “It was nice,” you muttered more to yourself.

Yes, it was nice, until one day he didn’t show up.

Jacob stayed silent for a second, watching you before asking: “where is your family?”

“Mummyyyyyy…,” Charlie cut in, leaning dangerously from the edge of the ruined padding of the armchair. You offered an apologetic smile, abandoning the tunic and needle over the table as you made your way towards the boy; and he stretched out a hand to you. “Can we go?,” he pleaded, pouting a bit. “I wanna have chocolate and see the ducks.”

It had been enough, you supposed. No child was good at waiting, even if Charlie was overly patient at times, much to your surprise; and you were somewhat thankful for not having to answer the man’s last question.

When you turned around to offer an apology, Jacob was already on his feet, pushing the insides of his top hat up. “I should get on my way,” he offered simply, fixing the hat on his head. “I already took enough of your time.”

“Are we going now?,” Charlie asked excitedly, hopping beside you.

You smiled politely, rubbing your son’s shoulder and pulling him closer to your hip. “Thank you for the help, Jacob.” He looked at you and you couldn’t help but feel like he was trying to figure you out. “It really means a lot.”

The man shrugged, as if embarrassed, and buttoned the coat. “It’s nothing,” he dismissed, jumping at the opportunity to change the subject. “I can accompany you both to the bus, if you’d like.”

Before you could answer that no, it wasn’t necessary, you could manage—

“Will you do magic on the way?,” Charlie inquired, looking at the man suspiciously.

Jacob huffed a laugh, lolling his head from one side to another. “I can think of something.”

The boy looked up at you, eyes big and pleading, and you sighed. At least his spirits were kept at bay. “There is no harm to it, I suppose.”

He smiled, then. “Shall we, then?”

The three of you left the flat with sunlight barely peeking from behind the heavy clouds that accompanied most of England’s autumn alongside the harsh wind. Jacob performed silly coin tricks you had tried to learn a million times, played word games and the such; successfully keeping your son’s attention long enough for you to _think_.

You felt nervous, for some reason, as if people were staring at you and— they definitely were, you remarked grimly. Men and women, society’s rabble — pickpocketers, thieves, muggers and the alike —, casting their eyes downwards; some defiantly staring you down or at Jacob, faces bitter with hatred.

And, funnily enough, none made a move — even if, by rough standards, the man accompanying you was dressed as if on his way to catch the Opera or whatever it was the rich did for entertainment. It only made you wonder even more what the hell it was that he did for a living. Your mind itched curiously, but you chose not to think about it for the time being.

When you got back home at the end of the day, there were 15 shillings neatly piled together at the top of your kitchen table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm itching with their dynamic!!!!! This fic is turning out really good and I hope you guys feel the same way.
> 
> Remember, keep a writer's work alive, comment something!!! It really does mean a lot to me. Thank you <3
> 
> As always, special thanks to templarfryer on tumblr. Thans for not allowing me to give up on this fic!!!!!


	3. Times of Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, huge thanks to @templarfryer on tumblr. Keep making me work, please.
> 
> I'm particularly fond of this chapter, no idea why. It's angsty, but it's good, and again, this whole fic is a heartthrob.

“What do you mean I’m _out_?!,” you screeched, eyes watering as a painfully cold grip took hold of your heart.

Mr. Jackson — _Jack_ , as he liked to be addressed to — sighed wearily, cleaning one of the various pints of beer behind the counter. “It is what I said,” he shrugged, not looking you in the eyes. “Your out.”

“Jack, you _can’t_ do that!,” you pleaded, pointedly ignoring the looks some of the early in customers shot you.

“Already did,” the man put the pint down, picking up another one. “Don’t need myself a singer who’s gonna whore herself out to my customers and have them never come back,” he stared you down, expression bitter and anger barely contained. “Shoulda said so before, that your a whore. Woulda treated you likewise.”

You felt the world stop around you, a shiver of fear running down your spine. The squeezing of your heart tightened and you leaned in towards the man. “Jack, I have a son. I need this job, I have to keep him fed and—“

“And on your way to a new one, I see,” he spit the venom casually, not minding the tears gathering at the corner of your eyes. “Shoulda thought ‘bout him before, eh?”

“Nothing happened, Jack! For fucks sake!”

“Yeah, right,” he cackled at his own inside joke. “Outta here with ya. Already hired a new girl, don’t need ya makin’ a scene now.” The man picked another glass up, polishing it without really watching he was doing, “and to think one day I hoped to get it on with ya…”

Humiliated and wrecked, both emotionally and physically, you hunched your shoulders and allowed yourself to cry quietly before being shunned out of the pub. As much as you hated the job, it was what had kept you and Charlie relatively warm at night; with a roof over your heads. You risked a look at one of the clocks on your way home — a quarter after 6 — and tried to think positively. The rent was paid. You had money for the next one, it was okay, if you tightened the belts. There was food at home, you’d get to spend some time with Charlie—

It all felt like a bad joke on you.

 

* * *

 

 

The door whined and creaked as Mrs. Dolloway opened it, letting a small gasp of surprise get past her thin lips. “Oh dear!,” she put a chubby hand against her cheek, “ya certainly dropped by early today! I wasn’t expecting ya around ‘til half past nine or so, girl.”

You forced a smile, fidgeting with the tattered cloth-bag in your hands. “Yes, I… got out early.”

Mrs. Dolloway frowned at you, closing the door a bit as she leaned closer to you so the kids wouldn’t eavesdrop. “What happened?”

Closing your eyes, you sighed and twisted your lips as if tasting bitter medicine. You never managed to lie or cover things from your neighbor — and possibly best friend —, as much as you wanted to. She didn’t need to worry more than she already did. “Dolls, really…”

“Dontcha ‘Dolls’ me, girl!,” she pouted, a slight rise of color coming to her complexion. “Come on, out with it. Ya can tell me things, ‘m not made of glass!”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “Jack fired me today.”

As expected, the woman gasped indignantly. “Whatever for?!”

“It doesn’t matter, really,” you cut in quickly, eager to change the subject. “I’m already looking for a new job.”

“This close to winter? Best thing ya gonna find will be laundry work, probably worse,” she stressed, brows knitting together in worry. “Want me to ask aroun’?”

It wasn’t entirely fair, you knew. You already felt like a parasite with all the help people offered so freely — the guilty pang of Mr. Fry— _Jacob’s_ kindness still all too recent in your mind. Drawing your lower lip into your mouth, you bit nervously on it. “If that isn’t a bother, Dolls—“

“Silly girl,” she stopped you before you could finish. “Silly, silly girl.” The plump woman closed the door behind her, pulling you into a tight motherly hug; her soft hands smoothing your shoulders lovingly. “Already taken care of, I tell ya. Stop worryin’, eh?,” she whispered as you awkwardly wrapped your arms around her.

“Thank you,” you offered meekly, allowing the tears to well in your eyes, “thank you so much, Dolls. I just—“

“Hush now,” she pulled away, patting your face gently. “Don’t ya dare go all soft on me now, we still have to talk, eh?,” she smiled. “I asked Tommy what happened that day n’ I think ya should talk to Charlie too.”

“I tried, at the park,” you confessed, leaning against the railing of the stairs, “but it didn’t feel right, at the moment. Didn’t want to make him get antsy on me while we’re out, you know?”

Mrs. Dolloway nodded sagely, but it didn’t seem to smooth her ruffled feathers. “When you can, then. Sooner than later, is my advice.”

You frowned. “What did Tommy tell him?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Charlie?,” you called softly, drying the boy’s hair with a towel. He answered by turning around and looking you in the eye. “Mummy loves you very much. You know that, right?,” and upon his nod, you took a breath in before continuing. “Remember last time I fetched you at Auntie Doll, you and Tommy had a fight?”

Your son’s face scrunched up and he cast his gaze down with a slight pout. “It wasn’t my fault,” he offered, although hesitantly.

“Mummy knows,” you said, sitting beside him at the bed, back resting against the wall as you appraised the boy. “I just want to make sure you’re not holding things back from me.”

Charlie’s lips twisted a bit, as he seemed to fight an internal monologue with himself. “I just…,” he fidgeted with the edges of the shirt you had finished fixing. “Tommy said our family is daft.”

“Daft?,” you prompted him on, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah,” the boy agreed, picking at his nails. “Because I don’t have a dad.”

You had been preparing yourself for this talk, but that didn’t stop the cold drop in the pit of your stomach. “And what do you think about that?”

Charlie frowned, looking at you as if he hadn’t fully grasped what you had asked. “Tommy asked me if I had a daddy…,” he started, although hesitantly, “I said no, because that’s what you told me,” Charlie cast his eyes down once more before talking again. “He said that’s dumb, that everyone has a daddy, but I said I didn’t n’ he told me our family is daft,” he started crying, shaking slightly, “’das why I hit ‘im. ‘M sorry, mummy.”

“Hey, now,” you called in, opening your arms for a hug, “our family is not daft. We love each other a lot, don’t we? Isn’t that what matters?”

The boy sniffled, moving closer as you allowed him to rest upon your chest. “But he’s right,” he mumbled quietly, “it’s true.”

You pressed your lips together, smoothing his hair and trying to hold back your own tears. “Don’t you like mummy, baby?”

“It’s not that,” he said, voice brittle with emotion, “I just…,” a quiet sob, “I wanted to have a daddy too.”

Silence grew heavy, broken only by the sniffling and sobbing from your son; and all you could do was hug him tighter.

 

* * *

 

 

Thursday morning came slowly, daylight barely making its way through the fraying edges of the ruined curtains. Days were growing colder with the approach of winter; you registered distantly and stretched, burying your face into the thin pillow as the tell-tale sounds of town started rumbling around you. Job hunting hadn’t been going the way you wanted — after walking around for 3 days straight, until your feet ached and chaffed in your boots, you came to the grim conclusion that Mrs. Dolloway had been right to some degree, because even the laundry houses and the few factories that offered jobs year-round were overstaffed.

At some point, you started doubting if there really had been such a sudden shortage of jobs around the slums or if people were simply avoiding you. Everyone loved to gossip around here, even if most tended to show you their kinder side; there were still the ones with venomous tongues and ill spirits, who’d pounce at the opportunity of pointing their fingers at you in a heartbeat.

You wondered if Mr. Jackson was to blame or if your poorly-thought-through display with Jacob earlier on Sunday to the bus stop had had anything to do with it.

Universe definitely wasn’t kind.

Charlie stirred against you, sleepy murmurs stopping as soon as you rubbed his shoulder. The boy was a blessing, truly, and you didn’t regret it; not him. He wasn’t to blame for anything. You closed your eyes again, opting for sleeping in for a bit more today. It wasn’t like you were to change anything and magically find a job today after leaving no rock unturned last few days. Sleep crept slowly, its pull gentle and sweet and—

A knock.

A _knock_?

Frowning, you sighed; halfway hoping it was your imagination or for another floor. You opened your eyes, resting a tired gaze upon the weathered wooden door. Someone — a male voice, you recognized — called your name through it, now knocking more insistently which made Charlie groan and turn to bury his face into the mattress.

“Heavens…,” you whispered, slipping out of bed, careful not to wake your slumbering son, to answer the door. It couldn’t be Mr. Ross, you had paid the rent on time yesterday and Mrs. Dolloway usually wasn’t up this early. “Who’s it?,” you inquired quietly, hugging yourself to retain the warmth from the bed.

 “Jacob,” the voice answered, sounding far to anxious to belong to the same calm and confident man you who’s had tea with you in the kitchen last Sunday. It was early, you frowned, much too early than what proper education demanded to a breakfast visit, and it made you feel uneasy. What on earth did he want? Then he called your name again, “will you open up?”

Pressing your lips together and sighing resentfully, you unlocked the door and Jacob wasted no time at slipping in and closing it behind himself. “I— Jacob, I have _never_ —“

 “I know, etiquette be damned,” he spoke hastily, taking off roughened up cap that matched his outfit. _No top hat today?,_ you thought to yourself. “But— I swear, as soon as I _heard_ about it— Wha— How— Uh… you… you were fired?,” the words tumbled out of his mouth, tripping on each other as he cast a worried gaze at you; a wild look in his eyes that made you wonder distantly if he had slept at all.

 “Jacob.”

“Are you okay?,” he continued, “do you want me to talk to Jack?,” the man asked now, pacing around the flat, trying to school his voice into something less anxious. “We can see to it, you’ll have your old job in the blink of an eye, I swear—“

“ _Jacob_.”

He stopped, frowning and fixing you with a puzzled look. “What?”

“It’s fine,” you offered lightly, trying to force a smile into your lips. “I hated it there, either way. I’m a singer to some degree, it kept a roof over our heads for a while, and it’s okay.”

Jacob swallowed thickly, staring at you with a dumbfounded look. “You… Ah, you’re not mad?”

“Whyever for?,” your voice came out like a tired sigh. “It wasn’t your fault. If I am to blame anyone, I’d point fingers at myself for doing something so reckless and stupid—“

“You were desperate, there is a difference,” he quipped in, grimacing at the thought. “I’d have come sooner had you told me— why— why didn’t you tell me?”

You huffed out a laugh, crossing your arms in front of him. “Because I don’t know where you live, Jacob Frye. Much less how to contact you.”

Something seemed to click in his mind and Jacob scowled. “I’m sorry,” he offered, the high of his cheeks adopting an embarrassed shade of pink. “I feel like— I thought you’d have my head if I showed up here.”

Frowning as you moved closer to the kettle, you gave him a confused look. “Whatever for?”

“Because— well, because…,” he mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to another. “I just...,” Jacob coughed, looking away with a somewhat relieved face and his shoulders stopped tensing up. Well, that went off terribly. “I thought you would be mad at me for making you lose your job that day—“

“You didn’t,” you said casually.

“—and I wanted to make sure you and Charlie were okay, so I just came flying here as soon as I could.” As you put the water to boil, he shoot a look at you that pleaded for something, even though you weren’t entirely sure what. “Are you sure you don’t want me to explain the situation to Jack?”

You splashed some water into the teapot. “I don’t want to have anything to do with Jack any longer, Jacob,” your voice came out colder than you intended and you tried to soften it a bit. “We had our divergences and he wouldn’t take me for my word,” you explained, opening the cabinet and pulling the tea box. You weren’t going to lie, seeing the kitchen cabinet filled with food like that eased the anxiety in your heart. “Besides, he’s a bloody penny-pincher and a _pig_.” At that, Jacob laughed and you turned around to catch his mischievous smirk at you. “Believe me, I’m better off out of there.”

 “’Suppose I’ll have to find a new pub to drink at, then,” Jacob started, putting his cap back on, “because that new girl can’t sing for shit, I’m telling you.”

It didn’t surprise you, honestly.

“It’s not difficult to please the drunkards,” you shrugged, “a pretty face is all they need at some point,” after your jesting, noticing what you had said, you clapped a hand over your mouth and turned to give him a horrified look. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to—“

 “It’s fine,” Jacob waved a hand dismissively, smirking as he walked closer to the stove and it occurred to you that he might be cold, without a thick coat on, “you can speak your mind around me,” he threw a few coals into the stove, proceeding to rub his hands together for warmth. “Besides, it was funny, and I believe I did tell you etiquette is not my best trait.”

You fidgeted with the kitchen rag in your hands, scoffing at his commentary. “Yes, I’ve been told.” As much as you hated to admit, you wanted to have someone’s company— _needed_ it, really; someone who wouldn’t fuss and ask questions you didn’t want to answer, and last time had proven that Jacob wasn’t unpleasant at all to talk to. You shoot him a glance, trying to sound nonchalant. “Would you like to have breakfast with us? I was just about to start cooking.”

Jacob tensed, looking at you as if you had just told him to leave the flat, giving you a piercing gaze that deeply unsettled you; as if he could see through your lie. “That’d be lovely,” he blew into his hands, a smile already plastered upon his face, “thank you.”

Nodding, you turned around to cut up the cheese and bread — it was still so soft it made you wonder if Jacob bought it the same day it had been baked. Walking around, he got rid of his cap, putting it over the table, and asked “are you still looking for a new job?”

It was bound to happen, sooner or later. “Yes, although not with much luck, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?,” Jacob prompted, coming up next to you and pulling the same two mugs you had used to drink tea last time from the cabinet. It made you itch uncomfortably, for some reason.

“No one would hire me,” you explained, giving him an exasperated look that suggested you weren’t overly fond of the topic. “Not even the washhouses or the coal factory.”

Jacob hesitated for a second, looking mildly guilty. “I can help you, with anything you’d like.”

Just as he never ceased to surprise you, the annoyance seemed to come along in equal measures. You started to regret the invitation.

Turning around for a second, you offered him a disinterested “oh?”

The man shuffled awkwardly, giving you a pained look. “What I mean is… I can… help. More, is what I’m trying to say.”

Not knowing what to do with the silence, you allowed it to stretch a bit. “That’d be nice of you, but what I really am looking for is a job, Jacob.”

Jacob nodded, looking away with furrowed brows and as if he wanted to say something else; but ultimately stayed silent. You were somewhat thankful for it, but wouldn’t settle for having someone else paying your bills; you’ve been able to make things right up until now. The quiet that grew in the room evoked a heavy cloud of uneasiness and you wondered just when Charlie would wake up.

As if on careful coordination, a sleepy “mummy?,” called from the bedroom and you sighed in relief.

Offering Jacob a somewhat apologetic look, you hurried to the bedroom — which wasn’t really that far away, “hey, baby…,” you whispered, bending slightly in order to caress his head, “are you hungry? Mummy’s making breakfast now.”

Charlie yawned, turning to press his face into the mattress again and stretching out his arms for you to pick him up. “Are you going out today?,” he asked when you fixed him against your hip, resting his face against your collarbone.

“I don’t know yet,” you answered truthfully. “Let’s eat first, yes? We have a visit over today.”

“We do?”

You nodded, rubbing his back a bit. “Do you remember Jacob?”

The boy stayed silent for a moment, mind still hazy as he tried to recall where he had heard the name before. “Jake?,” he asked, looking at you with a confused look, “the magician?”

“Jake the magi—,“ you cut yourself, laughing softly, “yes, the magician.” Charlie’s eyes widened a bit, letting go of the heavy lidded look he was giving you. “Why don’t we go talk to him, mhm?”

He shifted a bit in your arms, as if embarrassed, until ultimately agreeing; although hesitantly. “’kay…”

Turning around to leave the bedroom, you caught sight of Jacob watching you with an expression you couldn’t exactly pinpoint; but it didn’t look bad on his face, you decided ultimately. The softness in his eyes made the hazel stand out against the olive skin and you wondered what he must’ve been thinking.

“Hey, sport!,” he called cheerfully, waving a hand at Charlie as the other took a hold of the backrest of a chair, “thought you’d sleep in forever.”

Charlie got flustered, resting his head against your chest in a gesture of comfort. “Hey,” he answered timidly, fiddling with the frilly neckline of your dress.

“Now,” Jacob started, approaching you both with a disarming smile, “I have a little something for you today,” the smile broadened when he saw that it had caught Charlie’s attention, “I wonder if you’re gonna like it.”

Your son looked at Jacob curiously, weighing his next words carefully. Charlie had never been very talkative strangers, but seemed to be growing out of it at times; with moments where he oscillated between both before ultimately making up his mind about the person. “What is it?,” he inquired, starting to develop a mild interest at the promise of a gift.

 “Oh, I’m not really sure,” Jacob frowned, crossing his arms rather hilariously. “A little bird brought it to me and said it was your favorite.”

“Don’t be daft,” Charlie spoke in a half amused and surprised voice, “birds can’t talk.”

Jacob smiled at him, looking at you briefly. What Jacob lacked in etiquette and good sense, he made up with the way he got along with children — Charlie, in particular. You still weren’t entirely sure about him, but allowed yourself to be swayed over the attachment your son seemed to have developed over him.

“Well, you got me there,” he said, touching his chest lightly, “but you forget I’m a magician. I read it in the bird’s mind, actually.”

“No way!,” Charlie exclaimed, pushing away from your body and getting rid of whatever traces of sleepiness remained in his face, “really?!”

“Really!,” Jacob assured

He seemed to think on that for a few seconds as you shared a knowing look with Jacob. “Can you read my mind?”

“Oh, I can only read bird’s minds,” the man answered simply, “but I bet you’re still thinking about what the bird told me to give you.”

“Wrong,” Charlie giggled childishly, “I was thinking about what color your talking bird is.”

“See?,” Jacob gestured towards himself, as if resigned, “only bird-thoughts for me.”

“I want to know its color!,” Charlie protested and you giggled at the demand.

“Didn’t you tell me it was a blue one?,” you asked Jacob with a fake confused voice.

Jacob looked up at you, surprised at your input, but played along, “ah, yes,” he agreed, “a little blue bird asked me to give you this as a gift.” At that, the man pulled out the thin package from the insides of his coat.

“What is it?,” your son asked suddenly, twisting out of your arms as he leaned over and you were forced to put him down.

You looked at what Jacob had in hand — a bar of chocolate, of all things, and you were surprised the man even kept such a thing in mind. Smiling, you settled your gaze upon his face, at the pleased expression that spoke volumes of his character without the need for words.

“Chocolate,” Jacob explained, raising a finger before the boy could freak out, “but you gotta eat breakfast first, okay?”

Charlie pouted a bit, looking mildly disappointed even as Jacob offered him the candy. “Not even a piece?”

You supposed you owed him that much. Pretending not to pay attention at the exchange, you moved towards the stove and took the kettle out of the fire, pouring the fervent water into the teapot at the well-known ritual of making tea.

Looking over his shoulder — as you saw from the corner of your eye —, Jacob leaned down and whispered something to Charlie, who nodded eagerly, and gave him the candy back. You pretended you didn’t hear the clear sound of paper being unwrapped and the pleased giggle of your son as he rushed towards the bedroom with what you hoped wasn’t the entire bar right before breakfast.

“You shouldn’t have,” you whispered, voice softer than before, “you’re spoiling him.”

“It’s fine,” Jacob interjected, “he’s a kid.”

“Kids need to eat proper meals,” you huffed a laugh, looking at him as he leaned back against the counter beside you. “Thank you, though.”

He broke a piece of the chocolate and offered it to you. “You don’t have to thank me,” Jacob smiled when you took it, the candy melting a bit at where he had touched. “I’m glad you appreciate it, but you know that’s not what I’m looking for.”

You nibbled at it, reveling in its sweetness. It had been _ages_ since you had had any chocolate and it was equal measures refreshing and heartwarming. “I hope you didn’t go out of your way for that,” you pointed out, fixing him with an amused look.

Jacob scoffed, breaking a small piece for himself, “no, I just happen to be a fan of chocolate myself,” he confessed, waving the still-considerable-bar in the air. “This is from my personal stash, actually.”

A stash. Again, the question about just _who_ this man was nagged at the back of your mind. Chocolate was no cheap treat. “Don’t spoil him,” you looked at Jacob, stirring the infuser inside the teapot, “he’s too young and impressionable. Reality isn’t…,” you trailed off, lowering your head and staring at the chocolate in your hands.

 “Reality isn’t what?,” Jacob called out, goading you on.

Sighing, you let go of the candy. “Reality isn’t this; random strange benefactors showing up at your flat,” you picked up the teapot, setting it over the table and moved towards the counter again, “with chocolate and food and offering to pay off your rent,” grabbing the piece of ham, you set it on the cutting board, “and wanting to give you money for whatever the reason!”

Jacob weighed your words, unmoving, and it both astounded and annoyed you in equal measures how he didn’t even flinch. “What is reality, then?”

You put the knife down, feeling the wet hot tears of anger welling up in your eyes. “It’s struggling,” you answered in a cold, matter-of-fact voice. “You work hard to gain your money, see that it’s not enough and you worry. You pay rent on your own, you buy food on your own, you teach your kids why’s that they can’t have a new toy or a pair of shoes on your own,” wiping the tears away, you fixed the man with a harsh stare, “that’s what reality is, and it’s not kind.”

He stayed silent for a short while, seeming to be mulling over what you had said and you were thankful for it in order to recollect yourself. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be that way,” Jacob whispered above the crackling of the fire and the distant chatter of the streets, “maybe fate has a kinder outlook on life than what you might be used to.”

Hesitating as you steadied yourself against the counter, you thought on what he had said. “It’s…,” stopping, you fixed a strand of hair behind your ear, “…a nice fantasy,” you decided ultimately, setting the plate of sliced ham on the table. The flat felt eerily quiet now, the tension in the air drowning out the sounds of the outer world. “But I won’t wait for it.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was a while since Jacob had been around.

Deep down, you feared you had been too harsh on your words; but in your defense, you were on the edge for days on end, looking for jobs that didn’t exist with people whispering behind your back in accusing tones; not to mention the whole situation with your son, now that he didn’t want go to Mrs. Dolloway’s. It wasn’t one of your best moments, you knew, but you couldn’t help but to lash out at anyone who pushed your buttons.

Sighing, you shook your head slightly, stitching a button into one of your worn out shirts. You wouldn’t be surprised if the man never showed up again; it had been almost a week, after all. You had paid rent with whatever was left of the money he had given you so freely before — under the doubtful gaze of Mr. Ross, who didn’t ask where you were getting those shiny new coppers — and feared what might come to happen if Tuesday came to be with you penniless.

Maybe you could sell one of your things, but what? You didn’t own anything but the necessary. It had been that way since father passed away, and—

No.

It wouldn’t do you any good to dive into painful memories and replay things over and over — you had to push forwards, no matter what.

With your mind set, you decided to get rid of the armchair if things didn’t improve soon. Nodding at your own decision, you looked over at the bedroom where Charlie slept soundly; lulled into sleep by the yellowish glow the fire from the stove cast into the walls of the flat. You couldn’t help but feel your heart squeeze tightly for him, as if someone had taken hold of it.

And that’s when frantic knock came down on the front door.

Startled, you hurriedly got up on your feet in order to stop the hellish noise before it woke your boy up. Muttering low curses, you went for the door and yanked it open with furrowed brows, only to be face to face with Jacob — a sweaty, red from exertion, with a manic smile Jacob.

“You won’t believe this!,” he started, letting himself in as he pushed the hood down from his face.

You were dumbstruck. He couldn’t be serious. “Jacob, you better have a good reason—“

“To come here in the middle of the night?,” he cut you, stepping closer and taking hold of your forearms with bare hands. “Believe me, I do!”

Curiosity spoke louder than the annoyance in your mind. “Out with it, then,” you spoke quietly, expertly shutting his mouth the moment he tried to speak again, “and try to be quieter, yes? Charlie’s asleep.”

Smiling wildly, Jacob leaned forwards — perhaps a bit too close than what you’d like — and whispered, “I got you a job.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank your for reading! I'm getting nervous with this fic - I'm halfway done with the next chapter and I've never written a longfic before, so please, let me know what you think! I'm open to ideas too!
> 
> Remember, leaving a comment keeps a writer's work alive! <3


	4. Soar High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I late to the posting? Yes  
> Am I a lazy writer? Also yes  
> Did I get into a new fandom? Absolutely.
> 
> Red Dead Redemption hit me like a truck and I even made a tumblr for it ajsdnaksdb  
> Go visit me at arthur-morgan-slap-my-ass.tumblr.com !!!!!

Fumbling with the burgundy skirt of your dress — your nicest, and possibly only one —, you stared at the elegant writing of the shop in front of you. _Beaumont Haute Couture,_ it read at one of the various showcases. The building was rather big, but not very tall, painted in an inviting baby-blue with high wide windows in French style in white. You felt oddly out of place amongst the rich Westminster inhabitants passing by the street around you, even more so in front of a high end french boutique, with their long tailed dresses of all colors and draped fabric, with lacy ribbons of the _purest_ white you’d ever seen exposed in the front—

Absolutely not.

As if sensing your hesitation, Jacob shifted from one foot to another, top hat high on his head as he pulled his hands back together in a perfectly gentlemanly motion. “ _Madame_ Beaumont is a friend of mine,” he said anxiously, jaw clenched in anticipation, “we have a bit of a background, with her lending me suits that I usually end up having to pay for,” he coughed, risking a glance at you with anxious eyes. “She’s a kind woman.”

Giving him a dumbfounded look, you felt the dead weight of your empty clutch bag at your hand. “You cannot be serious,” you managed to say in between short breaths at the distinct feeling of being watched due the clear lack of a big ornate hat. “I don’t know what you were thinking, but—“

“Actually,” he interjected, squeezing an eye shut while cocking his head to the side, “I already talked to _Madam_ Beaumont.”

“You _what?!_ ”

“You never know until you try, is what I say,” Jacob offered lightly as he started to make his way towards the shop and ultimately forcing you to come along to avoid being left at the street.

Walking into the shop was like stepping through a veil of fantasy and into a magical world, you thought to yourself. Tons and tons of fabric hanged from exhibitioners — lavish velvets, chiffons of the most exuberant palettes and whole corridors of soft taffetas, endless rolls of Chinese and French silks, with equally boundless amounts of cotton patterns of the most varied colors and prints. There was a whole section destined to wool and outerwear, with winter palettes pinned together beside leather gloves — one of them so stark and white it made you wonder just _how_ they were able to reach that color —, fur scarves of all sizes and amount of softness.

More at the back of the shop, there were various shapes of crinoline cages exposed on _paris dolls_ , some with gauze and fabric over them to show what kind of figure it could achieve. From the upper floor, since the whole shop was like a ballroom surrounded by the a veranda-like balcony turned to the center of the building, in an openness you really weren’t used to, you could hear the continuous work of machinery, scissors cutting and a handful of women chattering, some in French, others in English. At both ends of the room, there were rows of elegant wood stairs that led to the first floor, while at the far left corner there was a closed office with open blinds where sunlight filtered through the windows.

More to the left and past the embroidered jewelry section, you noticed there were at least five fitting rooms, neatly disposed, in dark red velvety fabric with golden rims, and where you caught the sad little glimpse of yourself at the expansive mirror, once-white-shirt and a colorless burgundy skirt that in nothing resembled the fabrics neatly exposed around you.

“Ah!,” Jacob exclaimed, approaching a tall woman of dark brown hair dressed in an ample cyan-blue dress with crème drapes around the neckline and sleeves. She seemed to be busy, discussing something in French with a blonde employee that nodded eagerly at her directions as she held a plethora of scraps of fabric pinned together, reorganizing them as the woman in blue pointed at them. “There you are, Alette!”

The woman sighed and waved the employee away, fixing Jacob with a harsh stare from deep dark eyes. “Ah, Jacob,” she spoke rather slowly, thick French accent making her voice sound like the pleased purr of a particularly large cat, “I was wondering when you would show up to ruin a perfectly good day.” She approached with a pleasant smile, folding her hands together in front of her body like a Lady of the Court. Suddenly, her eyes turned to you, seizing you from head to toe. “Are you the new girl?”

“I—,” you stuttered, looking from Jacob to the woman — Alette — and back at Jacob, “yes, _Madam…_ ”

She smiled — and, unlike what you had expected she had an incredibly open and warm smile, one that lit up her entire face up to the corner of her eyes. “Tell me, _chérie_ ,” she spoke deliberately slowly, caressing one of the taffeta rolls of cloth, a deep shimmery midnight purple that changed subtly to royal blue, “are you familiar with French sewing?”

A bit taken back at her question, you nodded slowly. You did remember how French sewing worked, but never preferred it much due the waste of fabric. “Yes, I’ve learned when younger.”

“ _Magnifique_ ,” she exclaimed, seeming pleased before stopping herself and casting a frustrated look at you, “pardon my lack of manners,” the woman bowed slightly and you managed to get a closer look to her carefully combed hair, “I’m _Madam_ Beaumont, Alette if you’d like. Can I have your name?”

You answered promptly, looking over at Jacob anxiously. He had drifted away, examining fabrics and different patterns destined to waistcoats.

“Now, tell me,” Alette spoke again, making a gesture for you to follow her through the shop when you turned to her, “what else do you know?”

“Well, I—,” you thought for a moment, trying to calm yourself, “I can sew buttons, mend clothings—“

“Can you work a sewing machine?,” she asked with seeming disinterest, but you knew she was listening closely. One did not build an empire like that with idle chatting and hiring the nearest person who supposedly could work a piece of fabric.

“My mother used to own one,” you said, rather unsure of yourself, “I learned how to work it before we had to sell it.” Casting a curious look around, but too afraid to touch anything and soil the fabric, you tried not to brush against anything as you made your way through it with her. “Most of my sewing is done to make clothes for my son or mend the ones we already own. Sometimes I can make dresses for myself, but—“

Alette stopped on her tracks, turning around sharply and you coiled. “Oh, _chérie_ ,” she started, eyes wide and mouth curling into a pleased smile, “you _make_ dressings without a sewing machine?”

“Ah—, yes?,” you frowned, shifting the weight from one foot to another.

“ _Fantastique, fantastique_!,” she muttered to herself, tapping her chin in deep thought and fixing you with a piercing gaze that hid intelligence from years of hard work, “can you work the delicate fabrics? Chiffon, lace? Gauze, perhaps?,” Alette leaned forwards, taking hold of your hands and pulling them to herself for careful examination. She prodded, squeezed and turned them around and you were surprised to see that her hands weren’t as soft as you had expected, but were warm and with incredibly well manicured nails; and either way, you felt too dumbstruck to move or say anything. “Ah, _oui_ ,” she exclaimed, smiling pleased. “Small hands, soft enough. _Magnifique_ —“

“ _Madam_ Beaumont,” you started as soon as she let go of your fingers, flexing them to shake off the odd feeling. Were all rich people as eccentric and careless about personal space? “um, what—“

“How soon can you start, my girl?,” she asked, clasping her hands together and looking at you as one would look at a precious child, “I’m in dire need of someone who can work the finer fabrics with bare hands,” Alette explained, walking towards the front of the store with you in toil. “Most of the girls here are vastly experienced with sewing machines and familiar with _haute couture_ making, but unused to working with the needle and thread that delicate fabrics require.”

The woman stopped in front of a mannequin displaying a white light-weight piece. “Chiffon, _par exemple,_ is a beautiful material with a gorgeous fitting; but it always ends up being swallowed by the sewing machine when we attempt to work with it. It tears, rips and goes to waste,” she sighed, caressing the piece, as white as the first fallen snow of winter. “The fabric has to be French sewed to make sure it won’t fray at the endings, you see?” she pulled at it, showing the folded ending of the overlay. “No trimming. I made this one myself.”

You examined the sewing, noticing how closely stitched it had been, so much as the point where the needle had pierced the fabric couldn’t even be spotted. Cocking your head to the side, you picked the ending of the chiffon piece for a closer look.

It was fine work, indeed.

It both astounded and pleased you to see a businesswoman — a very well-off one, mind you — know so much about the seams and details of the making of clothes; most of them, usually, set up unrealistic standards with equally unachievable marks and production numbers, demanding more and more from their workers until they broke and could be replaced for new ones.

Starting to walk again, Alette clasped her hands together in front of her. “Now, I’m aware of your condition,” she started casually, “Jacob has filled me in on it and I see no quarrels; but you must understand that due demand I would be glad to have you here 4 days a week — Mondays off.” She stopped, fixing the collaring of a soft pink dress and turned to you. “What do you say we make deal at 25 shillings each week?”

It was a lot more than you used to receive from singing and your mouth fell open in silence for a split seconds before the frenchwoman could speak again, “of course, with an add of 20 more shillings, give or take, at the end of each month.” Alette turned fully to you, smiling pleasantly, “it all depends on how goes the sales of the pieces you make.”

Blinking, you allowed yourself to smile as well — for the first time since you entered the place — and fixed your new boss with renewed vigor, “I understand, _Madam_ Beaumont. It’d be wonderful, thank you.” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, “I can come here tomorrow morning, if you’d like—“

 “ _Fantastique_ ,” Alette leaned forwards, taking hold of your shoulders and squeezing them before kissing both your cheeks in a motion you could only guess was common in France. “Come around at nine o’clock, will you? I will clear my agenda tomorrow morning to show you around and explain how things work,” she smiled again, letting go of your shoulders just as another employee, now a woman with black hair neatly pinned up, holding a sketchbook appeared from behind one of the _paris dolls_ exposing a sumptuous cobalt velvet dress with silver seams. Alette waved a hand at her and the woman nodded, checking the drawings again as the eccentric businesswoman turned her attention towards you. “All set, _oui_? Tomorrow at nine o’clock?”

Smiling again, you nodded, “yes, thank you for the chance, _Madam_ —”

“Alette works just fine,” she cut you, waving a hand in a dismissive manner, “it creates a better working environment, _oui_? Please, do come tomorrow.”

She bowed graciously at you, turning around to gesture for the employee that she was free now. Excusing yourself — with genuine happy tears at the corner of your eyes —, you made a beeline to where you had last seen Jacob. Your cheeks hurt from all the smiling, and you were sure you looked absolutely ridiculous, but you just couldn’t help it, it was—

Jacob was talking to one of the attendants and turned around as soon as he heard your footsteps, breaking on a smile as his eyes settled on you. “So?,” he asked, hands rubbing together in front of his body, “how did it go?”

Sprinting the last few meters towards him, you wrapped your arms around the man’s torso as a laugh that bubbled free soon turned into a happy sob that shook your whole body; from shoulders to wobbly legs as he hugged you back. You looked up at him with a teary smile, unable to say anything else besides “thank you,” over and over.

* * *

 

Winter comes, bringing the usual cold weather and harsh winds, with freezing snow during night and constant drizzling in the morning; but accompanied of the good omens only satisfaction can bring. The working hours was settled from eight on the dot until four of the afternoon, with a generous payment from Alette after she found out you had a son and no husband (that _cannot_ do, my dear…). That got you around 25 shillings weekly as a base plus a share from commissioned dresses on which you worked on; like everyone in the shop, adding up a part of another 15 shillings or so at the end of the month.

Insisting that she had no need for your services that constantly, she had given you leaves on weekends and Mondays; as it had been previously settled. On the busier period of winter, you’d come around on Saturdays — even though the workday finished at one in the afternoon, under Alette’s orders.

Rather gleefully and a little embarrassed at your childish delight, you had started working on buying fabric of good quality to make new clothes that would last longer for you and Charlie — up until now, there were two new dress skirts and a blouse for you and a new shirt and a short for him. Regretting on having sold your mother’s old sewing machine, you seriously considered buying an used one in the near future to save time. The overall mood of the flat also improved, since you had the time now to clean it at least once a week; replacing the rotting curtains with new ones — yellow and white, just like the ones in your old childhood home. And so, you kept adding up small things here and there to make it more homely; a rug, a better mattress, a wool comforter, a new set of matching plates, nothing more than the necessary to make a place feel homely.

The ambient wasn’t the only thing improved, though. Food of good quality was a constant in the cabinets of the tiny flat, Jacob insisting on coming once every week, sometimes staying enough for tea and a pleasant chat. During that time, you had taken a liking to his reckless, somewhat boyish, behavior and learned to appreciate jokes laced with witty criticism and humor every now and then. He hadn’t let you open hand of the help he had to offer, though, insisting it was necessary to keep things running smoothly with the high of Winter just around the corner. Sheepishly, you acquiesced not for greed, but because he did insist a lot, speaking of saving some money for emergencies or bigger plans, as on moving away to a better off neighborhood or anything else.

Deep down, you suspected he just needed one more reason to keep coming around; but you kept your mouth shut.

Truth be told, you’d feel guilty for moving away, mostly because of Mrs. Dolloway and after all the help she’d offered so freehandedly; and you had started paying for the days Charlie had to stay there, sharing its and bits of food with her because, after all, she still had four children under her wing.

There wasn’t much to be said about work – besides the store being as busy as it seemed to be the day you had visited it with Jacob. Alette was a good employer – quite possibly the best one you’ve had so far —, not overworking the girls and paying a just salary. Rosemary, the blonde woman Alette was talking to before you arrived that day, was your supervisor; a tall woman with noble features and steel grey eyes, an unassuming smile always on her lips as you spoke and she oriented on your working pieces of the week. Of course, there was also Ruth, a petite redhead Irishwoman with an inclination for unstoppable chatter. She was lively and funny, and seemed to be good friends with Rosemary by the way they battered. Her sewing technique as close to perfection as one could be, but she would fall behind easily if someone lent her an ear.

Sighing tiredly, you rubbed your hands together near the fire — the nights kept getting colder and colder. You were glad to have enough spare money for coal this year to keep the cluttered flat somewhat warmed up this year; leaving behind the shameful knock on Mrs. Dolloway door to bask into the warmth of her bigger cooking pit. Charlie babbled some nonsense at his toys, playing over the rug with a wooden horse Jacob had given him recently.

Inevitably, your mind wandered towards the man once more. With a sheepish smile, he had written an address in a piece of paper for you, saying that if anything happened you could find him there – and you were undoubtedly surprised to see that he lived in the midst of Whitechapel and not at some better located neighborhood. Again, doubts played into your mind. Nothing made sense, really, but well; so far the man had been nothing but kind and considerate towards you and Charlie. You kept your doubts for yourself.

A thing you had noticed recently was the sudden heavy presence of women and men wearing matching green jackets around the general area of your neighborhood. There wasn’t much gossiping about the new visitors, but there was a sense of respect – and even fear – when a group of 3 or 4 of them passed by, chattering and laughing merrily. Some were young, perhaps younger than yourself, while others had greying hair. Taking a slow sip of your tea, you rubbed the rim of the cup slowly against your bottom lip, watching the flames burn.

You had seen those outfits before, of course – when you worked at the pub, Jacob would come there with people wearing those kinds of coats, always loud and with boisterous laughter, never sparing coin on liquor.

Giving out a heavy sigh, you rubbed your tired eyes in frustration.

You needed answers; and you needed them _fast._

* * *

 

“You must be messin’ aroun’ with lil’ old me, I tell ya,” Mrs. Dolloway shook her head, mild concern on her face as she sipped her mug of tea. “Growin’ soft on the head, are ya now?”

Some of the children dashed to and fro in the small flat, the younger ones — about 4 or 5, that Mrs. Dolloway daycare watched over for busy parents — laughing pleasantly at whatever story it was that Grace was telling them with possibly a little more flourish than necessary. It was still fairly early, so the flat was packed with children all over; and watching Charlie for a second, beside Thomas — you hated to admit it, you were still wary of that friendship —, you smiled at how at ease he seemed to be. It’d be impossible to keep them away from each other, all things considered, but you couldn’t help it, though.

Sighing, you put your own cup down at the counter. “I don’t know, Dolls…”

“ _Exactly_!,” she cut in, now coming closer to you. “You don’t know, girlie! Never seen that type in ya life and out of nowhere he comes wantin’ to—“

“He seems kind, is what I’m saying,” you spoke rather exasperatedly, massaging the side of your neck. “He literally gave me a job — and a good paying one, that is. It doesn’t seem like he’s up to anything other than helping.”

Waving her hand in a dismissive gesture she tutted at you patiently. “Now, don’ go out there sayin’ this nonsense! Ya said so, barely know that type!,” Mrs. Dolloway gestured towards the nearly empty mug and you handed it over so she could get rid of the lukewarm tea. “Can’t go trustin’ every other bloke you meet aroun’ now, can ya? Sure, he got you a fancy job, but again...”

Hating to admit it, she was right. You had been skeptical for a long while, it was true, but… but what?

You supposed you had taken a liking to the man. Every other way, Charlie seemed to like him well enough and it had been a while since your boy had accepted someone around so promptly. Crossing your arms in front of your chest, you gazed upon your neighbour with feigned disinterest.

“I see where you’re coming from,” you looked over at Charlie once more. “I’m just really confused, Dolls. Westminster is a good place to work, I just…” you spoke quietly, keeping your gaze trained on your son. When he looked at you, you smiled. “My new boss is nice enough, I suppose. She’s caring and king and has been more than understanding regarding my situation, I’m just… I’m not entirely comfortable just yet, you understand me,” you sighed, rubbing a small circle at your temple. “Westminster is another world, entirely.”

“Those fools in Westminster have no idea what it’s like to live in the real world, I tell ya,” Mrs. Dolloway scoffed, shooting you a look you couldn’t entirely decipher, “it be fancy, alright, but it pays; ‘n pays well for that matter, so I’m glad for ya, dearie.”

Biting your lower lip, you felt tension start to pool at your shoulders, waiting for the question that was sure to come.

“What did ya say was that bloke’s name again? Can’t quite remember it,” she pretended to rub out a speckle of dirt from the cup. “Ears must be failin’ me, I tell ya.”

You hadn’t said a word about it.

“It’s Jacob,” you spoke matter of factly, now closing your eyes. “Jacob Frye.”

There was the distinct sound of a cup breaking and you turned around to look at Mrs. Dolloway — who, mind you, had seemed way paler than usual.

“Dolls? Are you alright?”

The older woman fixed you with a fierce stare, as if she couldn’t believe you were actually real and there, in front of her. “It’s okay, I just…,” she hesitated, snapping out of it and starting to pick up the pieces of the ruined cup.

“Are you sure you—“

“Listen what I’m tellin’ ya now,” she cut in rather sharply, not looking at you as she moved to put the pieces of clay away to glue them back together — because, after all, there wasn’t much to dispense. “Jacob Frye is bad news.”

Over the surprise of your neighbour knowing just who Jacob was by _name,_ you twisted your lips unpleasantly, feeling it poking at the back of your mind once more; like everyone knew something you didn’t and deliberately kept it from you, just because it was fun to watch as you struggled to grasp at it on your own. “What do you mean?”

Mrs. Dolloway tilted her head to the side, seemingly distressed. “I’m tryin’ to tell ya,” she insisted, giving you a patronizing look, “he ain’t good company.”

“You say that, but you haven’t even talked to him—“

“Oh, heavens forbid it!,” she made the sign of the cross, “the further away from that man the better, and ya should think the same!”

Feeling frustrated, you felt the tatter that was your nerves start to run away from you, as you snapped rather angrily, “I think I’m old enough to decide who I’m going to talk to now, don’t you?,” you fixed the shawl around your shoulders, crossing your arms more tightly in front of you. “He’s been helping so far. You’re really being unfai—“

 “Think ya trust him, eh?,” Dolloway asked, seemingly out of nowhere and it caught you off guard, “think ya know what that man does for a livin’?”

Silence settled uncomfortably, and you noticed the children had stopped talking; now quietly watching both the adults throwing barbs at each other and, with a heavy feeling, you reminded yourself that no, you didn’t know a damn thing about him; left in the dark grasping for answers that weren’t there. “That’s… no,” you sighed, trying to calm yourself in front of the annoyance, “he didn’t tell me.”

Looking as if she had gotten the answer she desired, Mrs. Dolloway nodded. “The less you know the better, I’m telling ya.”

Feeling your curiosity pike up, you turned slowly towards the older woman. “What do you know about him?”

Mrs. Dolloway pushed away from you, shaking her head in dismay. “Why won’t ya listen, eh? It’s not safe, girl! Not safe!”

Losing your patience and clearly annoyed at being held back information, you finally lost it. “I get to decide what is safe or not, Edith!”

The woman turned around, now fully facing you; her face crimson red. “Think ya know that, eh? Wanna go and get messy with the wrong bloke? By all means, go ahead!,” she gesticulated wildly, now pointing a finger at you. “But ya listen to me, n’ listen well ‘cause I ain’t sayin’ it twice, eh?,” Mrs. Dolloway stepped closer. “Think they gonna spare Charlie ‘cause he’s a child? Think again, stupid girl, ‘cause that ain’t gonna happen!”

You gasped, putting your hand to your chest. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?!”

Mrs. Dolloway huffed out a breath, throwing her hands up in the air, “figured ya should know, since you’re so bloody smart!”

“You’re the one saying things that sound like threats to me and my son!,” you shout out, “I am as much as a mother as you, and you bloody know it!”

Mrs. Dolloway huffed out a breath. “Some mum you are, putting yer boy at risk like that!,” she retorted sharply and you could see it on her face the second she regretted having said so, just as your heart broke at the statement. “Oh, dearie—“

“Don’t,” you cut in, feeling the frustrated tears well up in your eyes. There was shame, disappointment and anger, all hitting you at once and full force, like a freight train. “You already said enough, Edith.“

With equally frustrated tears in her eyes, the woman came closer, fretting over touching you or not, “dearie, I’m just worried ‘bout you both, can’t ya tell? I’m—“

Shaking your head, you scoffed. “It’s hard to.”

“Don’t be like that, my luv’,” she pleaded, “I have yer best interest at heart—“

“That’s the bloody problem with everyone!,” you snapped, gesticulating angrily. “Everyone thinks they know what’s better for Charlie, or me! Can’t I tell? Whose life are we even talking about?! I’m his bloody mother, for God’s sake!”

“I’m just tryna to protect—“

“I don’t need your protection, Edith!,” you fumed, shooting a bitter look at her direction,  “I’m pretty big already, in case you can’t tell!,” angrily, you pulled the shawl tightly around your arms as you walked over to the group of astonished children and offered your hand to a dumbfounded Charlie, who took it right away. “Hopefully I won’t need your guidance on getting back to my own flat!”

And with that, you departed; stressed out, angry and more curious than ever.

* * *

 

A while later, you were chewing on your thumb-nail, watching as Charlie ate his dinner quietly. He hadn’t asked much about what had happened, glad to spend more time with you, and for that you were thankful.

With a final sigh, you pushed the strands of your hair back. What were you even going to do now? Should you believe on what Mrs. Dolloway had said about Jacob?

He seemed like a good man, up until now. Good contacts, with a rightfully looking business owner — and it wouldn’t astound you if the Queen herself had her gowns made there. And even so, the slurs didn’t seem to scare him; au contraire, he seemed more at ease amongst the dirtier parts of London than at the fancy and impeccably clean streets of Westminster. There was also the issue with the weird men and women wearing matching clothes — and you had a strong suspicion they were part of a gang.

“Mummy? Why did you and auntie Doll fight?,” Charlie asked finally, picking slowly at his sandwich. “Are you not friends anymore?”

Smiling crookedly, you tilted your head to the side. Sometimes he’d ask the most difficult questions, like any child. “It was a silly fight, my love,” you answered patiently. “It’ll go away soon, just like you and Tommy.”

He stayed silent for a few seconds, gnawing on his lower lip. “Yes, but…,” Charlie frowned, “who’s sorry?”

You frowned. “I’m not sure I understand, baby.”

“I mean,” he started, “every time friends fight… one of them is wrong, right? And then someone says they’re sorry and it’s okay, right?”

Huffing out a laugh, you nodded. “Yes, that’s sort of how it goes.”

“So who’s it, mummy?,” he inquired further.

“Mummy’s still trying to figure it out, my love.”

Charlie pouted, clearly not satisfied with the answer he got. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you said with hints of a smile, “but I promise when I find out I’ll tell you, okay?”

“Okay…,” he nodded, taking a small bite of his dinner. “Am I still going to auntie Doll tomorrow?”

You squeezed your lips together, not sure yourself. “We’ll see.”

“I really like auntie Doll,” Charlie stated, absentmindedly, “and I think she likes you too. This is silly, you know,” he took another bite and chewed on it slowly. You wanted to change his focus to something — anything! — else. “Can I have chocolate later?

 “Not today, you’re eating too much chocolate,” you answered promptly, glad for the change of subject.

Charlie groaned, throwing you his best puppy eyes. “But you said I should tell you when I want to eat chocolate!”

Closing your eyes, you sighed. There was some logic to it, you couldn’t argue with that. “Yes, but it’s late and I’m not letting you have sweets before bedtime. You won’t be able to sleep, then.”

“Mummy!,” Charlie pouted some more.

“You know begging won’t work with me, Charles,” you stated firmly, taking your plate and setting it on the sink. You’d wash it tomorrow, for now there was too much in your head.

“I bet grandma would let me,” Charlie mumbled under his breath and you pretended not to hear it, because you didn’t really know what to say.

* * *

 

The knock on your door next morning came with a sickening sense of dread and unspoken anxiety you really didn’t want to be aware of. You put the mug down, frowning — as you weren’t expecting anyone this early in the morning. Getting up on your feet, you moved towards the door half expecting to see Jacob on the other side.

“Who’s there?”

“Package for yer, miss,” a boyish voice answered, with a thick country accent, “from Mr. Jacob Frye.”

Well, that was odd. Opening the door cautiously, you spotted a boy — by the looks of it, 18 at most —, with black coal hair and equally dark eyebrows over bright blue eyes, a dusting of freckles over his nose and cheeks. He wore the same olive jacket and vivid green sash tied to the waist you’d seen more than a few times around the bar, accompanying Jacob; although you doubted they’d let him in by the looks of the lingering boyhood on his face. The boy took off his cap, glancing at the palm of his hand, where it seemed to be something written, speaking your name slowly.

“That’s me, yes,” you answered hesitantly. “And who are you?”

“Name’s Harry, miss,” the boy spoke hastily, “thought I’d gotten the address wrong,” he mumbled slowly, patting at his pockets, “Mr. Frye sent me to deliver yer a message and a parcel,” and plucked a small stack of paper-money tied together and by the looks of it there must’ve been at the very _least_ 10 pounds there.

Too dumbstruck to do anything else rather take the money he had offered, you fixed him with an incredulous look. “I’m sorry, I—“

“Mr. Frye wanted me to tell ye he’ll be out of London for a while now, eh?,” he put the cap back on his head. “Had to go sort things out at Crawley, but don’t you worry, he assigned me to bring the shoppin’ ‘round,” Harry smiled, a bit disheveled, although warm. “Anythin’ in particular ye would like?”

To know what the bloody _hell_ was going on would be a good start.


	5. Tumbling Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a fucking mess and I forget I had written this chapter like, 3-4 months ago and i'm alskndakjsndkajsnd wig.
> 
> There is no schedule to update this, I'm going through a lot and my life is messy and I'm confused for the biggest part of the time, but have this. I hope y'all can forgive my inactivity but *rubs hands together* we're getting to the good bits, y'all. Buckle up and get ready cuz we have DRAMA
> 
> Also, Alette is fucking amazing and I love and stan her. Same goes for Harry. He's the sweetest. I LOVE HIM???

Pinning your hair neatly back, you checked on yourself once more, smoothing the velvety fabric of your new olive green skirt. Christmas had come and gone with you and Charlie enjoying a simple supper together, with the sheepish addition of Harry — the young man that had wound up at your door so many nights ago under Jacob’s orders. His company was constant around the flat, since Jacob had left him “in charge” of attending to your every need and he was nothing if not diligent at it.

You couldn’t help but take a liking to him, despite the awkward situation.

On Christmas night, Charlie had given you an interesting drawing of you and himself with happy smiley faces, to which you praised him greatly for. To Harry, he had put together a small collection of shirt buttons — most of which he had picked up at the store and Alette, enchanted by the little boy, waved her dismissal at your anxious looks. You were still impressed by how quickly Charlie had grew on him, clinging to his legs whenever he walked through the door. For Charlie, you managed to scavenge a tiny collection of 3 books — for bedtime stories, mostly fairytales. He had seemed thrilled, even though he didn’t know how to read yet, but you were sure he’d get there.

 Ignoring Harry’s constant dismissal, because he hadn’t gotten you both anything, you had bought him an interesting little trinket that looked oddly like a telescope, but at the end there were lots of different designs — the vendor had called it a kaleidoscope and you, mesmerized by it, had indulged into that small piece of expense. You couldn’t deny the little scrawny 18 year old boy had made a way into your heart, what with the way he was diligent in his duties and even offered himself more than once to watch over Charlie.

And so, as you expected, Harry was overjoyed at the display of thoughtfulness — even if he wasn’t entirely aware of it.

Unable to make it to your little Christmas supper, Jacob sent Charlie a set of marbles — made from _actual_ marble. The little things were wildly colored, at least 20 of them, and Charlie was delighted at the present — even more so knowing it had come from “Jake”. It came in a small black velvety satchel, clicking softly as Charlie took it from Harry’s hand. You smiled, albeit somewhat worried about the expensive gift and Harry turned to you, pulling a small navy blue velvet box, with a silver ribbon tied around and a letter.

You gave Harry an untrusting look, plucking the piece of paper from his hand before anything else.

_“My dear,_

_I am truly sorry — I couldn’t have imagined to take so long here in Crawley, but I trust Harry is looking after you as I requested. I had planned on handing over the gifts personally; and please, don’t feel the need to buy me anything in return or else I’ll be terribly embarrassed._

_I hope this letter finds you and Charlie well, with a hearty fire keeping you warm; I know for instance it is what I’ve been lacking these weeks in Crawley. I will send word through Harry in advance, before I take the train back to London._

_Expect news from me soon!_

_Best regards,_

_Jacob Frye.”_

The handwriting seemed rushed, but still carefully crafted; like he had sketched it many times before settling for that one. It was elegant and bold, with flourished t’s and y’s; but the heartfelt words caused you nothing but further dismay, alongside the gift he had given you, a beautiful silver necklace with a tear-shaped pearl hanging from the silvery string.

They were expensive gifts, you thought to yourself; somewhat displeased at the display of thoughtfulness.

And there was still the situation with the boy — Harry.

Not that he was bad, not at all. Harry was all that he seemed to be, a boy; some kind of envoy sent by Jacob to make sure you were being cared for, as he had said. He was sensitive, thoughtful — always acquiescing to Charlie’s fantastic requests of pastries, sweets and biscuits, which you readily swooped away from his reach. Harry also seemed to have a soft spot for children, by the way he treated Charlie, which meant he must’ve had younger siblings and when you asked he seemed somewhat bothered, but gave in rather easily.

“Have myself two sisters, Hilda n’ Gloria, they’re both of 14 now; but I don’t see ‘em no more.”

“No?, you prompted, “and why’s that?”

“Got myself kicked outta home, back when I was 15,” he mumbled with a frown, playing with the small sack of marbles Charlie had gotten from Jacob as he watched the boy play absentmindedly with the wooden horse the man had given him a few months ago. “My pa n’ ma didn’t like having a… well, a puff around,” the boy shrugged, unashamed of himself, “Jacob took me in ‘nder his wing, when I got to London. Said he’d look after me, ‘til I didn’ need him no more,” there was a slight pause and Harry snickered at your thoughtful silence. “Which’s a tad bit more than what my kin ever did for me, I say.”

“Have you seen them ever since?,” you asked, genuinely interested at the history of the intricate creature in front of you. “Your sisters?”

Harry’s eyes snapped up at your inquiry, fixing you with a curious gaze. He had been expecting shock, perhaps even anger; but found none, you supposed with a broken heart. “Naw,” he turned his attention downwards, back at the marbles in his hands, “them from the country, miss. Haven’t seen my sisters, no; but I miss ‘em to bits. Send things every week, but ‘m not sure if pa lets ‘em keep those,” he cocked his head to the side, smirking in a way that reminded you a bit too much of Jacob, “but it’s not like he can stop from sendin’ those anyways, y’know?”

Smiling, you got up and collected the clay mug he had taken his tea and smoothed his hair. “You’re a good boy, Harry.”

He had seemed flustered, but didn’t open his mouth to protest; simply nodding at your words with a sheepish little smile.

* * *

 

“Oh, really?,” Alette inquired promptly, smiling at Charlie’s beaming little face, “did Jacob really give you those? My, my! How pretty they are!”

“Yeah,” Charlie agreed, dropping the shiny marbles back in the little velvety fabric. He had been taking those everywhere, since Christmas — and you thought it was equally sweet and hard to keep an eye out for such an expensive gift, but his delighted face was all the reward you needed. “I don’t know how to play with them yet,” he said as pensively as a 4 year old boy could, “but I’m learning from Harry!”

“Ah, Harry,” the older woman nodded, clearly familiar with the name, “that’s very nice of him.”

You cocked your head to the side, fiddling with the sleeve of your white blouse. “You know the boy?”

She considered your words carefully, watching Charlie play with the marbles in front of her, whispering gibberish and giggling at his own little stories “Naturally,” was her answer, twirling an ink pen in her slender fingers. “Harry has given me a fair share of information from Jacob; and Mr. Frye seems to have quite the soft spot for the boy,” and at that, she turned to you, dark eyes shining over the silver lining of her reading glasses. “Just as he seems to have one for you, I’d say.”

Suddenly blushing — and not even sure why —, you waved a hand at her words. “I’m not entirely sure of what you’re talking about, Mrs. Beaumont—“

“Of course not, my child,” Alette mused to herself, “at this age, my, was I foolish,” she let out a sweet laugh, watching Charlie with vivid interest and you weren’t entirely sure if she was talking about you or the boy at this point. She pointed to the tea tray on the table and you nodded, and the eccentric Frenchwoman moved to prepare you both a cup of tea. “You’ll get it in no time, hopefully,” she said absentmindedly, pouring the sweet smelling tea as expertly as only a Lady could.

She seemed to know Jacob well and long enough; you thought to yourself, pushing down the insistent little voice at the back of your mind that suggested not so smoothly for you to press on the subject about Jacob’s soft spots and what the _hell_ did that mean.

There was, of course, the obvious copious amount of money to spare — the expensive gifts and clothing, the high societal contacts —, but there was the other side; the one that wore dirty paper boy caps mended together so many times you weren’t really sure if there was any of the original material there anymore. The dirty pubs in which he seemed to enjoy drinking in, the familiarity with the slums and, of course, his obvious involvement with what seemed to be a _street gang_ , nonetheless—

So you might as well ask.

“How did the both of you meet?”

Alette shrugged, offering you the drink — and you were thankful for its comforting warmth, taking a seat in front of her as she took the fine china in her hands to sip on the sweet tea, “in a ball, I suppose”, she muttered, frowning for a short moment. “Her Majesty threw a ball, yes, and invited most of her favored friends and Royalty, Jacob included. She was eager to meet his sister, Evie, again; but apparently she was abroad at the time.”

_Her Majesty._

The world came to a halt and you took a sharp intake of breath to force it to keep spinning. Just who the hell was that man?

“I suppose you didn’t know that Jacob holds the title of Sir, did you?,” Alette asks, nonchalantly, but you know deep down she’s reading into your every reaction.

“No, he has never mentioned,” you offered somewhat meekly, eyes shifting towards the white French-styled windows — now closed, with the high of winter still hovering over London in all its cool and unrelenting white glory.

“Seems like him,” Alette shrugged, resting the china cup — a crispy white with an array of forget-me-nots painted into it, rimmed with silver; and some part of you was dreadfully terrified of dropping such a fine piece of work, but you stayed quiet and start to drink your own tea. “Jacob is not very given into titles and societal etiquette, believe it or not,” she shot you an exasperated look, overlooking the obviety of the statement for comical effect.

“It does come as a surprise, I must say,” you sighed, still curious as you taped your index finger on the rim of your cup. “Would you happen to know if… ah, if he was born into Royalty or was the title given to him?”

Alette hummed, somewhat amused by your inquiry. “Not born, no. When we come to Court, every name is known, believe it or not. It’s an understatement to say that the Palace isn’t filled with familiar faces and names; but Frye has never been one of them. I imagine Mr. Frye has earned his knighthood while under service of the Queen herself.” She fixed you with a curious look, crimson-painted lips curling into a satisfied smile. “You seem quite interested on Jacob Frye, _ma chérie_.”

You blinked once — twice; before the deep pink blush blossomed on your face as if you were left out in the cold for too long. “I’m… simply curious of my acquaintance.”

“Acquaintances don’t hug other acquaintances the way you did,” Alette chirped, amused to some degree, “and they certainly don’t come to one of the best _Parisien Boutiques_ in all of London,” here she turned her palms up, motioning towards the entire building, “asking if I was willing to take in one of his own.” Alette reached for her china, turning her head to the side before continuing, “don’t take me wrongly, your work is marvelous and I’m more than satisfied with it,” she took a final sip, watching you from over the silvery glint of the cup rim, “but I haven’t been able to tell _why_ exactly he has brought you to _me_.”

You blinked once.

 “My point is,” the noblewoman continued, unabashed and seemingly at ease, “acquaintances don’t do that sort of thing for acquaintances. Friends, perhaps; it’s a maybe.” She smiled then, leaning forwards conspicuously, “unless there is something else to it.”

You were admittedly impressed. “How…”

“It gets boring in the Court,” Alette commented with the pesky look of someone remembering something terribly bothersome, “it _does_ gets dreadfully boring in the Court at times, if I have to be honest, and we had to pass the time somehow.”

With some sense of mirth, you tried to picture Jacob in the Palace, wearing the ridiculously and overly embellished suits and polished shoes rather than the mud stained overcoat with the tattered leather boots that you were certainly sure had never seen a day of scrubbing in their lives.

It seemed wrong, somehow.

And, at the same time, something whispered a the back of your mind. It felt strange, unfitting in a way like kind strangers coming to save you while having to attend a Royal Ball; to be as used to the slums as he would’ve been to the walls of the Palace. How intimate had Jacob been to the Queen? What business did he have with the likes that would lurk in the dirty pubs you used to work in, as if at ease? A Knight of the Queen, drinking watered down lukewarm beer with men not strange to violence, and clearly owner of a reputation—

It sent your head spinning with inquiries you’d never be able to answer on your own — and, for the thousandth time, you caught yourself asking the very same question to your conscience, loudly and insistently; _was he dangerous?_

Charlie let out a surprised shriek as a marble slipped between his fingers and he chased around it as the shiny marble bounced a few times through the room and you turned to watch him wobble around. Alette regarded the boy warmly, a small smile playing on her painted lips upon the delight.

“He’s a marvelous child,” she commented, giving you a look you couldn’t fully comprehend the meaning. “You must be very proud.”

Nodding, you offered a coy smile of your own. “He is a great boy, has a bit of a temper but… don’t they all?,” you shrugged. “Do you have any children?”

Alette let her gaze follow Charlie for a while longer, avoiding giving an answer to your question for longer than it was considered polite, and you wondered if you had said something wrong.

“ _Non_ ,” she said simply, turning to look at you — and she seemed incredibly tired. “My husband and I tried, but I… there were two.” She pushed her head upwards, leveling the emotion in her voice. “They were born dead, at three and four months each. I never managed to conceive a child,” and at that, she smiled somewhat somberly, where the light of it never quite reached the crook of her eyes. “After my husband passed away, I found myself alone in a house far too big to live in and equally as lonely, with no children to take care of.”

 “So, _pour Dieu_ , I sold it. Moved to London and spent every last penny of that dreadful mansion to open my first _boutique_ , moved into a bigger building as the demand grew; until I managed to buy and renovate this one,” she looked around with a glint of pride in her eyes. “It’s mine and the people who work for me are the closest thing I’ll ever have to children,” she fixed her dark gaze on you, smiling fondly. “And believe me, I’m not dissatisfied. To care for others and make sure they earn an honest living for honest work is the next good thing to nursing a baby.”

You mulled over the words, somewhat impressed at what had been given to you. Alette had stricken you as a demanding yet kind boss; you knew she was from some degree of nobility, but to carry such a tale around wherever she went and still manage to push through… that was true strength and sheer force of will, from your point of view.

The tea had gone lukewarm in your hands and you forced yourself to finish it as to not waste the overwhelmingly sweet drink.

“You’re a strong woman, Alette,” was all you said, regarding her with renewed admiration; every little detail, from the frills of her ¾ sleeved dress to the carefully French pompadour styled hair.

The older woman hummed pleasantly, standing up on her feet and taking a deliberately stroll to the white framed window, peering outside like a curious cat. “I have to be.”

* * *

 

“Mummy,” Charlie called from beside you, as you sat on the armchair beside the stove to try and chase away the insistently cold weather of mid-January; needle and newly sewed baby-blue shirt for yourself in hand. “Mummyyyyy—“

“I can hear you, boy,” you whispered due the late hour, pulling at the needle to make sure the button had been securely stitched in place, “what is it? Are you hungry?”

Charlie pouted slightly, balancing himself from side to side; the dear wooden horse clasped securely in his hands. He shook his head, instead looking around the flat with a sore expression, and you knew what he was going to say before he actually did. “I’m tired… can we go to sleep now?”

With a heavy sigh, you put the sewing aside to pull him onto your lap, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead; hair still smelling of boyhood. “I told you it was late. Why didn’t you tell me you were tired earlier?”

“Because I’m tired now,” he retorted quickly, tucking his head into your neck, clinging to the fabric of your sleeves, and bunching one tiny fist around it, as the other folded to the front of his body, still clutching to the carved toy. He whimpered until you started rubbing a motherly hand up and down his back.

“Now, now…,” you said softly, getting up with a tiny groan as Charlie wrapped his legs around your midsection, “to bed with you, yes?”

Walking a tad bit awkwardly towards the bedroom, you pulled the woolen comforter back, peeling it from the mattress with a shushed voice at the boy’s soft complaint. When you laid him down, next to the wall — the way he liked —, you sat beside him, petting his hair gently and setting the toy next to him.

Charlie reached for it, fingering the wooden thing sleepily before turning to look at you with a somewhat sorrowful and tired expression. “Mummy?”

“Yes, sweetheart?,” you answered with a smile, finding it funny how he’d fight off the sleep sometimes.

“Is Jake gone too?,” he asked then, pulling the horse closer to his chest, the sore look back in his eyes, “are you still friends?”

You cocked your head to the side, smiling softly. It wasn’t the first time Charlie had mentioned of Jacob, but it had been the first time he had _asked_ if the man would be back; and quite frankly, you wish you had the answer to it.

Nothing bounded him to you, in the slightest, aside from “affections”; as Alette had mentioned. He could just up and leave, couldn’t he?

You brushed the thought aside.

“Of course we’re still friends, my love,” you whispered, smoothing his hair in a motherly fashion, “mommy gets letters from Jacob all the time.”

A white lie, you knew — there hadn’t been any word from him ever since Christmas, the pearl pendant he had given you slowly making its appearance upon your neck every once in a while; and you had gotten the habit of reaching out to it without a second thinking. It was inoffensive, some unconscious move, but deep down it had bothered you enough to take notice; but not to actively avoid it.

“But when?,” Charlie inquired further, frowning with all the annoyance a 4 year old could muster, “when is he coming?”

You offered him a half hearted smile, brushing his face with your thumb lightly as he turned towards the source of affection. “We’ll see,” you said quietly, watching his half lidded eyes, “say what, when he tells me, I’ll let you know. That way you can take out your marbles to play with Jacob.” At that, Charlie’s eyes peeked up at you, registering what you had just said before he truly took hold of it.

“Really?,” he pressed on, clinging to the sleeve of your nightgown, “really, really?”

“Yes!,” you giggled, taking his tiny hand into yours and kissing it briefly, “now sleep, tomorrow won’t come any quicker if you stay awake.”

The boy settled down, bringing the toy closer to his chest with a labored sigh — like he wasn’t entirely pleased now. “Okay, then.”

“Okay, then,” you parroted, leaning forwards to press one last kiss to his face before getting up on your feet to go back to the living room — for your work wasn’t yet finished, and besides, it was still a quarter to eleven and you had no work tomorrow.

“Leave me a candle?,” Charlie’s voice came quietly as you reached the door”

“Of course,” came your sweet voice, turning towards the low dresser and lighting up a match to the candle inside a cup you had put there exactly for that fashion.

“Thank you,” he muttered and once you turned around to check on him, the boy seemed to already be asleep.

Tiredly, you made your way to the living room with a quiet shuffle of feet. The high of winter had come and gone, with the beginning of February just around the corner now. With spring, came Charlie’s birthday — on April 15th, more exactly —, and your growing tension. You sat back on the armchair, feeling the distant throb of a stress headache and ultimately deciding to ignore it.

By God, you were growing worried. What had become of Jacob?

With bitter resolution, you couldn’t help but feel the growing anxiety build up in your chest; memories of early childhood tainted by the constant expectation of something that wasn’t bound to happen anymore. A coal crackled in the stove behind the armchair and you couldn’t help the shiver that ran up your spine, emotionally driven.

What if he had passed? Would you hear any of it?

You took the bundle of light-blue clothing, plucking a white button from the small metallic case and fixing it neatly to the shirt, following the row already sewn in.

Maybe he was simply avoiding you; you came to the quiet conclusion, giving into the possibility as more rationally acceptable.

The needle punctuated the fabric and you went on autopilot, the thimble clicking softly on your finger as you worked diligently. Perhaps he had business to attend to, like everyone else — God knows Jacob seemed to have far too much free time in his hands. Which only raised even more questions as to where his revenue came from, as he hadn’t been born into nobility — which was fairly obvious, due his behavior and disdain for any sort of etiquette —, nor care to explain what exactly it was that he did.

And that led you to the other question, how and why exactly had Jacob been knighted? You pulled at the needle, tightening the thread. You tried to remember _how_ exactly you get a knighthood. Bravery during war? He didn’t strike you as a soldier — besides, there was no big war to speak of recently and he wasn’t old enough to have taken part of one. Services to the Queen? _What_ kind of services, exactly—

The thread snapped from how roughly you had pulled at it.

“Oh, bloody hell…,” you sighed in defeat, folding the fabric and sticking the pointy end of the needle in it; blowing out the candle in sequence. This could be fixed tomorrow, you supposed; getting to your feet with a labored breath and shuffling towards the kitchen to make a cup of tea before calling it a night. You wouldn’t be able to sleep like this.

You set the kettle upon the stove, moving to pull your favored mug — a burgundy almost-cracked little thing made of tinted burnt clay — from the cabinet with the tin of tea mix; and you still couldn’t get used to how full the box would be, first hand tea and not the already used leaves you’d buy from the merchants and maids.

And you, with nothing else to do, crossed your arms; pulling the woolen shawl — a new one, of a greyish blue that reminded you of a blanket you used to own when younger. The silence was almost unbearable, crushing your spirits as the coals decided, for once, to stay quiet; the oil lamp on the table shimmering in its peaceful existence, oblivious to your anxiety and worries.

Distantly, you heard a dull thump. Paying no mind to it, you pushed off of the counter; snagging the cloth to take the kettle off of the fire and pouring the little water you had boiled in the teapot for a single serving to allow the tea to set in. There was shuffling outside, a quiet groan and a hushed voice. Placing your hands on the counter, you turned your eyes to the door with a curious glance before moving to swirl the tea infuser inside the teapot to hurry the process.

The voices and steps grew closer and you frowned, mildly annoyed. It was late and Charlie was asleep and you’d give hell to whoever was creating that sort of commotion just outside your door at given hour; because since you were on day with the rent, you _could_ complain.

And just as you were about to move to the door, annoyed and ready for a hushed reprimand—

There was a nervous knock to it, like rapid fire; once, twice, three times.

You hesitated, recoiling.

Could it be?

Another groan, this time graver — sounding more like pain than anything else, and that’s what spurred you onto the door. You unlocked it in the beat of an eye, throwing it open with your heart at the back of your throat and a sickly feeling growing at the pit of your stomach—

What greeted was a vision out of a nightmare.

Jacob leaned heavily over Harry’s slighter frame, hunching over and clinging to his side with a loose soaked-through-with-blood gloved hand. He seemed to be barely conscious, with bruises and cuts all over his face, shirt torn and hair matted with dried blood—

“By the _heavens_ above—,” you gasped moving to grab hold of Jacob’s face with an unpleasant ache behind your ribs that you refused to address, fretting around and making way for the both of them to walk into the tiny flat. “What happened?!”

“Ya’ve got to help ‘im, miss,” Harry croaked with effort, pulling Jacob’s nearly limp frame more forcefully over his shoulder. How he managed to support him was beyond you. “ _Please_ , miss—“

You nodded furiously, pacing around the living room for a couple seconds. You had to think _quick_.

“Right, Harry,” you called, suffocating a terrified gasp from your voice, “take Charlie to the apartment across the hall. Bring the neighbor,” you pressed a trembling hand to your forehead, “her name is Dolloway,” you moved in, pulling Jacob’s arm from the younger boy over your own shoulders. “Charlie stays there, do you hear me?”

“Yes, I—,” he stuttered, stopping to stare at you, mouth slightly ajar.

“ _Harry_!,” you hissed, and Jacob moaned in pain beside you, muttering something under his breath. “Focus!”

“Right!,” the boy snapped, “righ, right, I’m going—“

He hurried through the apartment, entering the bedroom and appearing shortly after with a half asleep Charlie in his arms, Harry pressing his head insistently to the crook of his neck and scurrying out of your apartment, straight as a bolt. You took an unbalanced step forwards, pulling Jacob along to the bedroom with a feeling not too far from panic. He tried to say something again, gritting his teeth and letting out another held back moan. It made you want to scream at him to stop it, that it wasn’t funny—

“Come on, Jacob,” you called to him in a strained voice, coaxing him to lay down on the bedding, shoving the blanket out of the way, ignoring the smears of blood on your nightgown, “lay down for me, yeah?”

Jacob hissed in pain, grabbing at your hand with his own bloodied-gloved one, eyes suddenly wild. “Don’t—“

“I’m not leaving,” you assured him, patting his hair carefully and finding with a drop of your stomach that the dried blood there wasn’t his.

Only then did you take a look at his clothing — a black leather long coat with an stylized “A” sewn into the red velvety lapel in white. It was bulky, the high collar of it easily covering his neck. There was a thick leathery… _thing_ strapped to his arm, coated in coagulated blood; a dark red oozing hole at the right side of his black waistcoat. There were straps everywhere, attaching weapons — both missing and still there with him —, and a what seemed to be a hood barely peeking from behind his neck.

Jacob closed his eyes, groaning as another wave of pain shot through his body and you touched his face in order to make him look at you. “Jacob, _Jacob_ ,” you pleaded, drumming your fingers on his stubbly cheek, his hazel eyes shifting to you with a wild look in them, “I need you to stay up, do you hear me?”

He nodded stiffly, breathing out slowly through the nose and moving to fumble with the heavy looking gauntlet strapped to his left arm. It was big, long enough to cover the entirety of his forearm and riddled with scratches and wear off marks; and just as bloodied as the man himself. Jacob undid the straps blindly, pulling at them with a jerk of his hand and trying to get rid of it. You moved to help him, pulling at the strange object with some sort of hesitancy and when you did get a hold of it on your own, you could just feel how _heavy_ it was.

Ignoring the tiny voice at the back of your head, you pushed forwards and away from the bed, feelings in conflict at the whole ordeal as you picked the fabric scissor from the dresser. Without much hesitation, you clipped through the tatters of clothing that were his coat and shirt; fleeting quickly between panic and rational thought through it as bloodied bruises appeared in front of you. Jacob breathed harshly, shivering slightly as you peeled the soaked through clothes from his body.

“My God—,” you managed to breath out, pulling away in shock. You couldn’t exactly tell what had happened with him with all the smeared blood, purple and blue bruises blossoming everywhere across his torso amongst scars, both old of a white fade and new in angry pink. There was what seemed to be a stab wound at the right side of his ribcage, bleeding; it didn’t seem too deep, but you shivered nevertheless.

A black tattoo of a black bird with its wings spread was inked to the left side of his chest, but you could make out enough of it in the half light of the bedroom and, with a sickly drop to your stomach, you realized that it was a Rook.

It all made sense now.

“Sorry—,” Jacob choked out, drawing in a labored breath and moving to grasp at his right shoulder where a particularly nasty looking purple bruise peeked from bellow the torn fabric. “Not looking so good tonight, love.”

His humored quip seemed quite out of place for the seriousness of the situation and you had to restrain yourself from snapping at him for it. You felt somewhat betrayed, like he deliberately lied to you about his involvement with the Rooks — he was _the_ Jacob Frye, you realized with a cold hand closing itself upon your heart.

What the _hell_ did you get into?

You stared at his pained face with a dumbfounded expression, unable to believe the man that had brought your son chocolates and helped with the rent was the feared gang leader of London’s biggest street gang. You heard the door of the apartment creak open and steps towards the bedroom and, for a moment, you had forgotten completely about having Harry call Mrs. Dolloway.

“By the Queen,” Mrs. Dolloway's distinctive voice called from behind you, the light of a lantern shimmering in the darkness of the room over your head, “ _by the Queen_ ‘erself,” she called again, the accent thick in her voice, “what on earth—“

“Dolloway,” you turned to her with tears stinging the corner of your eyes, still on your knees beside the bed, “ _please_ , you’ve got to help, I—“

She stared in shock at Jacob lying down on your mattress, then down at your bloodied nightgown and hands; pulling the green shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “My girl,” she whispered at you, leaning down to take a better look at her face, “are you—“

You shook your head fervently, grabbing at her forearms as the tears rolled down your cheeks, “I’m fine, just—,” you breathed out with trembling lips, “he’s going to _die_ —“

Her expression turned icy cold, eyes fixed on Jacob with something akin to bitter resentment. “The quicker the better, I’m tellin’ ya,” she spat out, pulling the shawl around her shoulders with an indignant huff like an upset horse. “I told ye, Jacob Frye’s trouble—“

“Please,” you pleaded with her, pulling the woman closer with a wild desperation in your voice as it cracked up in quiet sobs, “he can’t die, you’ve got to—“

With a twisted expression, Mrs. Dolloway stared at your crying face before looking back down at Jacob. He hadn’t opened his eyes ever since the woman entered and seemed unusually quiet; and terror gripped your heart once more. “Gimme a bowl of water, then,” she acquiesced tiredly, “an’ bring me ‘nother lamp,‘s far too dark in here. There’s whiskey in my flat, brin’ it.”

Nodding vehemently, you scurried away from the bedroom as she hissed-yelled out, “an’ don’t forget to put the knife in the fire, girl!”

Looking back, you watched as Mrs. Dolloway bent over Jacob and made sure he was unconscious before getting rid of the rest of his clothing. Ignoring the bloody smears of your hands and on your white gown, you got to work. Turning around, you put more water into the forgotten kettle, thankful for it were still somewhat hot and threw more coals into the fire, leaving the handle open to make sure air would get in. You reached for the bread knife then, quickly dousing it in cold water from the kitchen water basin before setting about half of the blade in between the burning coals.

Satisfied, you turned to walk across the hall, opening the door without much of a ceremony and spotting Harry sitting on the couch with an asleep Charlie leaned over his leg; the bottle of whiskey clasped securely between his hands. The other children slept haphazardly across the cluttered flat, and before Harry could open his mouth to ask about Jacob, you stretched out your hand.

“Whiskey,” you demanded and, for a second, Harry seemed to hesitate — thinking you were berating him for drinking — before his mind clicked in.

 “Whiskey,” he agreed promptly, passing the bottle over to you and Charlie stirred up, shooting you a sleepy glance, but the young Rook boy — you still had to get used to it, _God_ — acted quick and caressed his back; quick to send him back to sleep. “Go, I’ll watch over them.”

You gave him a thankful nod, hurrying back to your apartment and gathering the rest of what Mrs. Dolloway had asked you to; and you went on automatic again, pouring the lukewarm water into the bowl and grabbing the most clean rags you could find, the lantern resting on the table quickly adding up to your growing pile.

“He’s ‘nocked out,” Dolloway informed you, discarding the cut pieces of Jacob’s trousers on the floor, the leather straps cut clean and efficiently. He looked mortally pale on top of your bed, but his chest was rising and falling slowly without the conscious pain. “‘s for the better, ‘suppose.”

“Is… is he going to die?,” you asked, setting the things down on the bedside table. Dolloway shook her head, looking distinctly unpleased.

“Man’s seen worse,” she said cryptically, avoiding your questioning gaze, “he’ll be just fine.” She dipped her hand into the water and if she noticed you had heated it up a bit, she said nothing to your caring gesture. “Get ‘im clean. Did you brin’ the whiskey?”

“Yes, I—,” you hesitated, trying to remember where you had let go of it, “I think it’s on the counter.”

“Good,” she nodded, getting up on her feet and getting rid of the knitted shawl and moving towards the counter; her long greying hair a mess of curls down to her shoulders. You folded the rag in two, dipping it into the water and settling yourself on the right side of Jacob’s body, by his head; and got to the slow and laborious job of getting rid of the blood.

“This ‘s bad,” Dolloway commented grimly, looking down at Jacob’s bruised face, “gonna get ‘imself killed at some point, that’s for sure.”

“You know him?,” you asked, trying to feign nonchalance.

She answered with a noncommittal hum, uncorking the bottle of liquor. “Unfortunately, that is.”

You dipped the rag into the warm water, rinsing it carefully. “Where from, Edith?,” you whispered, gaze settling on his roguish face; a shallow frown between his eyebrows.

Mrs. Dolloway pressed her lips together, staring down at the man herself. “He’s killed my son,” she said bitterly. “Only 15 he was.”

Freezing in place as you wiped blood from his neck, you fixed a gaze on her. “He…,” you started, not sure what to do with yourself. “William?”

The older woman said nothing and bent down, sloshing some of the whiskey on the open gash at his ribcage. Jacob stirred, hissing slightly as he jolted awake at the bite of alcohol upon his skin. You acted quickly, taking a hold of his forearm and pressing your free hand to his cheek in order to keep him still. He all but groaned, closing his eyes again and you could _see_ the tears running down the side of his face; paving a clear path through the grime and some of the blood. Your mind shifted back and forth as you tried to piece together the new bit of information about him — had he truly killed a 15 year old _boy_? Your thoughts heeled as you watched his anguished face with trembling hands. Was he—

 “Gonna feel awful tomorrow,” Dolloway commented, sloshing some more of the ambery liquid over minor scrapes; the strong smell of it spreading across the small bedroom and making your eyes tear up. “Gotta close that one,” she pointed at the angry-red slash on his ribcage, “hurry up and brin’ me the knife.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *mic drop*


End file.
